


Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x01: "Big Country"

by frogfarm



Series: Faith the Vampire Slayer [9]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (1992)
Genre: Amish, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-15
Updated: 2009-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 22:04:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frogfarm/pseuds/frogfarm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Faith arrives in Pennsylvania, in the heart of Amish territory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

>   
>  __  
>  Muse, look with kindness on my poor skills  
>  and grant me words worthy of the tale I tell.
> 
> \- Allan Cole, The Far Kingdoms  
> 

 

>   
>  _So look at me now, I'm just making my play_  
>  Don't try to push your luck, just get out of my way  
>  'Cause I'm back.
> 
> \- AC/DC

   While still far from the introspective type, Faith has been thinking a lot of late regarding when, precisely, she started feeling less guilty about remaining a free woman. Double header in the column for Apocalypses Averted -- nothing to sneeze at, but in the end that's two-dollar words that don't pay the rent. More important is attitude. From the moment the glass shattered between her and Wes she'd sworn things would be different, and indeed they have: Angel ensouled, Hellmouth sealed, Slayers blooming all over the globe. Plus, shiny new girlfriend -- old enemy, but apparently those make the best kind -- real Scooby respect despite the occasional hinky stares, and whose fault is it if the sight of them together is considered _weird_? Feels damn good, from her end.

   This? Not so much.

   Howls echo through the surrounding forest as she half-slides, half-stumbles downhill. The new boots are getting a real workout, and it's not like she wouldn't have beaten them to hell sooner or later, but she resents being forced into it. Traveling cross-country by automobile, bypassing so many conveniences of the modern age, is the inevitable price of remaining a semi-wanted fugitive. Running from a fight, now -- probably gonna suck no matter how much older or wiser she might get.

   Of course she has only herself to blame; originally it was about finding the Nekitri, leading them away from populated areas, until she got cocky. Before she knew it more had joined the chase and now the hairy buggers are playing back, herding her instead of the other way round. Even after months of soft living, slacking off training in favor of workouts between the sheets, Faith knows she can take them all -- probably, without getting _too_ banged up -- but finds herself rather uneager to try. Facing off against superior numbers and firepower no longer being her preferred method of relaxation.

   At least, not all the time.

   She skids to a halt at the bottom, risks a quick look over her shoulder. The howls are getting closer, so doubling over the creek didn't throw them off. Giles' briefing made them sound like wanna-werewolves, but Faith's decided she'd rather deal with a pack of those. Weres are clumsy, graceless creatures even in the wild, away from embarrassments like linoleum floors; the Nekitri a sleek and streamlined contrast, way more teeth and uglier appetites. Add double-jointed limbs, top with the stink of a week-old litter box, and it's guaranteed fun for the whole family.

   She breaks into a trot, readjusting the bow strapped across her back. Another new toy, and well worth the cost, just not so convenient when you're running for your life. Would have ditched it by now if not for that whole cocky underestimating, mutated into pride both practical and just plain stubborn. Not that she's stupid enough, anymore, to die for a bright and shiny, but she's thrown away enough nice things and damned if she'll lose the first one she actually paid for.

   The trees are starting to thin as she picks up the pace, breathing steady. She can go to ground if she has to, hold out one more day 'til the cavalry comes to town, but these things really shouldn't be left roaming around. Her own pride notwithstanding. So her destiny turns out to be dogcatcher.

   She grins, dodging a fallen tree. There are worse things.

   Like demons who sneak up on your flank.

   Of course she hears it tearing through the underbrush before it bursts forth, a whirling dervish of Tasmanian devil all slobber and snarling. That gives her the split second she needs to alter course, duck under a branch that misses her head by that much and then she _really_ puts the hammer down, balls out T-one thousand ground-pounding. The forest is breaking up, and she can only hope they won't be cresting the next hill only to find a bustling highway full of canned tourist meat. Maybe a few Smokies, to liven things up...

   The smell of fresh manure is strong as she tears down the gently sloping hill, toward the center of the valley. Pale, washed-out moonlight bleaches the fields, dark outcropping of a house and barn looming ahead. Startled cattle and horses protest from inside but they can't drown out the siren song in her ears, wordless call of the predator; any minute now lights will come on, some old farmer with a shotgun come storming out and what's already wrong will go nowhere good, in an even bigger hurry --

   She dodges one from the left, but the gravel driveway is less forgiving than soft forest floor and she nearly loses it, regains her balance to go airborne as the other sails underneath. Positive there's a third, at least, and she's just hit the ground when she realizes too late they're ignoring her. Heading straight for the barn, as the animals inside start to scream

   (_like people_)

   "Oh, no you _don't_ \--" Might be stupid, but no way in hell is she gonna let them have all this nice juicy beef without a fight. The first leaps to the side of the building, tearing mightily at the door as it explodes in a shower of splinters; she grabs the bow from her back, gets off one good shot before it disappears inside and she gives chase, the other two hot on her heels.

   Inside is darker than planned but she doesn't slow down, trying to ignore the deafening shrieks. Pinpoint where the fucker's got to...

   She twists and drops before fully processing the scream of Slayer-sense; feels it whip through the air above, imagines strings of descending drool as she rolls away. The bow's turning into a liability and she tosses it into the loft, retreating to the far wall, pulling the knife from her belt. A frightened horse is slamming its enormous bulk against the other side, and the rest of the demons are scuttling forward out of the gloom when her free hand comes to rest on smooth, polished wood.

   Without looking, she lifts the pitchfork and weighs it, gauging heft and balance.

   The sharpness of the points.

   She doesn't waste precious breath on witty quips, just throws herself in; keeps them at bay with the business end, striking repeatedly at those double-jointed knees. But the tight quarters are working against her, thin denim scant protection from their claws. Bleeding in a dozen places, and her shoulder's probably dislocated again, when one of the demons turns with a snarl.

   Her gaze follows to a young, dark-haired boy in a white nightshirt. Standing in the doorway. Frozen in terror --

   The Nekitri crashes to the ground before him, convulsing like a pretzel in a futile attempt to dislodge the pitchfork, run clean through its back. Already she's moving on the remaining two; kicks one in the knee and it falls, opening its mouth to scream in frustration before she grabs it by the back of the head, slams it face-first into a wrought iron plow, shattering every tooth.

   The third is scrambling to get away, but she can barely see through the red haze, on full auto assault as she catches up just outside; slams into it from behind, the two of them a rolling ball of fists and fur that ends in a heap with her on top. The beast's scrabbles intensify, growing desperate as her limbs wrap round it like a python. Spit flies, its teeth snap on air and Faith bears down, face twisting in a savage grin; hearing and feeling the crack and crunch, snarls that turn to squeals until her hands find its neck to deliver the final, fatal twist.

   She slowly disengages from the stinking corpse. Ribs heave for air as she struggles to stand; blood running hot from her wounds, heart pounding in her chest.

   Somewhere a door slams. Through the roar in her ears, a woman's voice, raised in fear.

   _Do you still feel that way?_

   The cock of a shotgun, as she falls to her knees.

   _Do you still want to die?_

   Falling, Faith remembers.


	2. Chapter 2

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**Current mood:** | happy new year  
---|---  
**Entry tags:** |   
[fanfic](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/tag/fanfic), [ftvs](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/tag/ftvs)  
  
  
_ **Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x01: "Big Country" (Act 1)** _

> "Time to go to sleep."
> 
> "No, _mei-mei_.
> 
> "It's time to wake up."

 

([teaser](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/58356.html))

 

**Faith the Vampire Slayer  
Year One**

by [damaged justice](mailto:dj@frogfarm.org)  
creative [con|in]sults, additional prose and fine tuning by [](http://somercet.livejournal.com/profile)[**somercet**](http://somercet.livejournal.com/)

1x01:

"Big Country"  


[   
](http://i36.photobucket.com/albums/e16/imrowan/ftvs.jpg)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

    When you've been unconscious as many times as Faith has, you tend to take it seriously.

    And that's before the nightmares.

    Not garden-variety junk she's (mostly) moved past, the triteness of abusive mom and absent dad. The real deal that still get right to her like nothing else, that found their birth those long months she lay dead to the world and it to her. Ultimate solitary confinement; her unbeating heart, sealed in some nameless tomb. From those she always awakens drenched in sweat, scream clenched behind her lips.

    Except now sometimes Willow's there. Trying to make it better.

    She doesn't open her eyes.

    She's Faith, but she already knew that.

    True eighties child, no last name to speak of, or that she'll admit to. Boston born and bred, expatriated to Sunnydale, California, original Home of the Hellmouth. Chosen to stand against the vampires, the demons, and the forces of darkiness. Fallen into an abyss of her own creation, reforged in the crucible of redemption

    (_God, is he doing that again? Can't we make him stop?_)

    No, that was Buffy. Or Andrew, talking about Buffy. Things just get mixed up, sometimes, since Willow's spell. And since Dana --

    She's lying in a bed, under clean-smelling sheets and blankets. Unmistakable feeling of fresh bandages, numerous sore spots. Lying in a bed in

    (_Lancaster Pennsylvania_)

    (_March something, two thousand four_)

    Nine months since she helped their ragtag crew to close said Hellmouth, seal it up and shut it down as close to permanent as anything gets in this life, spent the summer finding new ways to bring out freckles on a redhead. Might have thought the honeymoon schtick would get old fast, but the boarding house was practically their home; the only downside her itch for the other kind of action as summer became fall, crept toward winter. Her birthday coming so close to Christmas used to mean one always got ignored until it started being both, but this year Willow told her all about twenty-three and the law of fives -- seriously, dressed up like a librarian and who knew math could be _interesting_, and Faith was more than ready to jump her from the lecture alone. Or having to sit through it before the other present.

    She quashes the thrill. Not done, working it out.

    Buffy's left the Isle, sends letters from the Continent, entreating them to join her and Dawn the moment Faith's papers are in order. The new Council is making the transition from revolutionary fragments to a modern, enlightened organization. Helping Slayers not just fight, but live. And Faith is also a key member of an elite circle -- not by choice, which only entrenches the certainty of her membership -- that exercises ultimate power and control over said Council. Small mollification, that among the Sunnydale survivors are not just veterans, but two guys who came in at the last minute. Plus a girl who

    (_technically, what's in a word_)

    didn't used to exist

    (_little bitch, wish you were never born_)

    But they were over that long ago, and Faith supposes they'd be over her as well if it weren't for this relationship thing, coming out of left field. As much a surprise to her as anyone. Taking it one day at a time, as she learns how to play girlfriend to the most powerful witch in the hemisphere. _Known witch_, Willow always points out --

    (_focus_)

    Everyone else in England and elsewhere, just the two of them these nine months, you can make a baby in that long and she's not touching that one, but she won't deny it's been good. Still no word on a new set of traveling papers, but the Council has other priorities. After her dramatic escape from the big house Faith counts herself lucky she isn't more famous, mug plastered on every lightpost and street corner. They still have the rental car, and they've been talking about a road trip to Trinity, scope out a suspected Potential.

    When out of the blue one day they get a call, and the honeymoon's over. And after that, it's more of a blur. Literally. Because one minute they're packing their scant worldly belongings; then Willow chants, the world bends and before Faith quite knows what's going on they're in England, too.

    Just like magic.

    Though apparently Willow needed extra juice from the coven, to avoid taking dangerous shortcuts. And the emergency is more than apparent on their arrival.

    Barely a month since, spent mostly in heavy meditation and-or therapy with the Slayer of a thousand faces, as one Potential unkindly put it. Of course she was creeped, and who wouldn't be at hearing an echo of yourself, coming out of a crazy girl? But they all agree Dana's in there somewhere among the ghosts that plague her, under the mask her abductor labored to create. Willow took one look at her, got all wobbly lower-lippy, then rolled up both sleeves and went to work.

    _I helped make her what she is_, she says one night, lying in Faith's arms. It's their job to help find her.

    Bring her back.

    Weeks pass while tempers fray and options weigh, reminding her that with great responsibility come right royal pains in the ass. Their patient has improved, though that's saying sweet fuckall; taken quite the shine to her and Will both, though as far as Faith's concerned you can shove Dana Has Two Mommies sideways and the concepts of her and _motherhood_ can happily live out their lives on opposing continents. But their relationship is complex at best. Even on those rare occasions when the girl speaks for herself.

    Giles kept up the subtle pressure, wanting a decision from Faith, and she finally gave it to him. Wasn't lying, mostly. Doesn't think Dana's ready; knows

    (_hope_)

    she can handle it.

    Reports have been coming in for some time regarding all manner of demons; driven east by the closing of the Hellmouth, scattering across the United States like little evil multicolored dots on a map. The Council has more agents currently in Europe and Asia than in the north American region, and the distribution of newly activated Potentials is more or less random. Willow gave plenty of qualifiers there that only muddied the waters, and the only part Faith remembers is the phrase _random walk_. Which is the perfect description when she looks at the map. Trying to figure where to begin.

    They still don't have her frigging papers, but the coven doesn't have a problem helping out with the return ticket. Council funding ensures a fresh rental car waiting when they pop back into the States, along with spanking new cell phones: Willow as always armed with her trusty laptop, Faith and her "young ward" with little more than the clothes on their backs.

    Then about two days ago duty called, with no warning. As it tends to do. So she left them someplace safe. Tracked her quarry, turned the tide.

    She's lying here. Bandaged up, after fighting off a pack of wild dogs

    (_that's my story, and I'm stickin' to it_)

    She's alone in the room. She'd stake her life on it.

    Faith opens her eyes.

 

**

 

    Her first thought is that Gwen Post would have approved. Never a fun name to remember, and not a good start until she sees the little things that make the room someone's lived-in space, from the lack of dust and cobwebs to the detailing on the dresser. Also the incredibly comfy quilt spread over her; subdued colors, ornamented with an eight-pointed star.

    Looking around, she sees hardwood floor, unadorned walls. Not much by way of furnishings. Just a dresser across the way, plain wooden chair by the bed. Her clothes in a pile, neatly folded...

    She blinks, feeling a draft.

    She throws back the covers and nearly chokes to see herself, wearing an actual, honest-to-God, knee-length white cotton _nightgown_. Interesting as that might be, she can't help but notice her shirt and jeans look freshly laundered. Even stitched up --

    Her shirt rings.

    Or to be more precise, plays the theme from "Bewitched", thus indicating the identity of both her caller and the mysterious party who keeps changing her ringtones. Not positive ID, but not an unreasonable suspicion.

    She fumbles at the pocket, retrieves her phone before the jingle can infect her with bounce.

    "Mornin', sunshine."

    "Oh! Finally!" Willow's flutters subside to some measure of composure. "Are you okay?"

    "Easy, there. I'm fine. Little banged up."

    "Where are you?"

    "I'm --" She looks back down. Could definitely stand seeing Will in this.

    "The Twilight Zone."

    "What?"

    "Just a farmhouse. I, uh, spent the night." She moves to forestall questions with one of her own. "How's problem child?"

    The phone emits a tinny sigh. "Bad news. I lost her again."

    "Shit." That's got her full attention. Faith sits up, swings both legs over the side; spots her boots under the chair, polished and blood-free. "Still no go on the magic lojack?"

    "Too much interference," Willow confirms. "She does contain multitudes. And actually -- I think she might have lost me. As in deliberately ditching the witch?"

    _Beautiful._ Faith always finds herself simultaneously pleased and worried when Dana shows this kind of independence. Hasn't killed anyone new they know of, yet. But she knows how easy accidents happen.

    "Yeah, listen. About that --"

    "Don't worry about it." Willow sounds completely blame-free. "We got ambushed. You had to make a decision. It was a good call."

    "Not lookin' for an affirmation." She squashes the flicker of irritance, digs through the rest of her clothes. Stupid new phones are too small to hold between head and shoulder, but when it comes to one-handed dressing, it's safe to say her skills remain the maddest.

    "Want help trackin' her? Or you got it?"

    "I got it." Faith can practically see the redhead running one hand through her hair, cheeks puffed in concentration. "I can filter out most of the noise, but not without some serious meditation. Once I know what direction she went, we can work out where to meet up. Unless you need a ride now --"

    "Nah. Like I said -- little banged up, but I'm good. I can always hitch."

    "Really." She's unsure if this is the good kind of amused. Willow's next words prove she was right to worry.

    "We are using your definition of _little_, here? As opposed to the dictionary used by us silly Earth people?"

    "Totally. That noise ain't my belt. It's the traction machine they put me in --" She clamps back a grunt. Putting underwear _on_ might be a little harder than she remembered.

    "What's wrong?"

    Carefully neutral. "Damn it."

    "What?"

    "Can't find my knife." She switches the phone to the more tender arm. Easier if she just stripped down, but whoever dressed her like this probably prefers modesty to Skinemax.

    "Did someone take it?"

    Faith snorts, decides not to bring up the bow.

    "Probably lost it in the back forty." Jeans half-buttoned, she manages to wriggle out of the nightgown, a little sorry to lose the fabric on her skin; heavy, old, and butter-soft. Definitely somebody's baby.

    A return-snort. "May I say I never, in my life, expected to hear the words 'the back forty' out of your mouth?"

    "I'll bet." A wide bandage of surprisingly modern gauze covers her right lower ribcage, held by elastic wrap. Willow's still chattering away.

    "So who are you staying with? They must be really nice to take you in like that."

    "Yeah, they're swell. I met 'em." Bra's going on easier, and her side isn't as bad as she thought. Body's just giving her ass a heads up. Play nice, or else.

    "Are you doing something?"

    "Sec. I'm gettin' dressed." All well and good, but she doesn't want to test arms behind her back just yet. She hooks the bra on like a holster; spins it and sticks her good arm through, grabs the phone again. "There we go."

    "Sorry. Didn't know you were --"

    "Puttin' on a show? Well, you know me --"

    She hears the quiet rap just before the door swings open. Scrambles madly to hold the phone, ribs creaking in protest, and she's just got the twins tucked away when someone's entering the room.

    _Okay_, Faith thinks. From the Twilight Zone to the Outer Limits.

    The woman is wearing a blue frock and a high-collared dark blue shirt; her arms bare to the elbow, hugging a metal bowl and white towel. Black stockings cover shapely ankles, those shoes that wouldn't look out of place on a Boston cop and with her own shirt tossed on the bed, panties peeking through the open fly of her hip-huggers, Faith can't help feeling underdressed.

    "Uh...hey!"

    _"Who's there?"_ Willow's voice echoes from the receiver.

    "I'm sorry. I thought you'd be still asleep." There's a lilt that Faith never associated with German tourists. Or World War II movies.

    "Nah, I just got up. It's, uh...the lady of the house."

    _"Is that an accent?"_

    She uses her teeth, yanks the shirt up one arm. "No."

    "I was going to check your side. You took a bad blow, there."

    _"Are you still in America?"_

    "Yes! I'm fine, really -- look, can I call you back? This is kinda rude."

    _"Can I talk to her?"_

    "No."

    _"Why not?"_

    "'Cause it's against...she doesn't --"

    _"What, is she Amish?"_

    "Does your friend want to talk?" The woman takes a tentative step closer. Her tidy white cap covers straight brown hair, streaked blonde from sun. "I've used phones before. We just choose not to own them."

    Faith realizes if she hangs up, Willow will undoubtedly teleport straight to her, leaving Dana stranded and causing a heart attack into the bargain. Possibly some burning at the stake.

    Down but not defeated, she offers the phone with some hesitation. The woman carefully accepts, holding it to her ear.

    "Hello, this is Katie...Willow? Like the tree? Oh, that's a pretty name... You're welcome. Well, she's standing, but she has a nasty wound on her side. All these little cuts... yes, like claws."

    Faith tries to distract herself from the conversation, adept at checking out without obvious staring. Katie's face is unmade, plain but pretty; a few pockmarks on her forehead but strong features, a look of general competence, and Faith thinks her own is getting just that much warmer at the realization, growing ever stronger, that she slept in this woman's bed last night. In her nightgown, maybe her good one, or at least one of the nice ones. And who else could have tended her wounds, wrapped her up all nice and neat?

    "Well, I suppose. But I didn't think she'd be standing this morning. Nor do I think she should stay up. No, she hasn't eaten..." More nods. "Yes, I'm going to change her bandages...no, the rest are just scratches. It's the side I worry about. Yes. Oh, ya...yes. Oh, thank you." Is Katie _blushing_? "Oh, you're too nice. Ya...I can't wait to see you. Take care...I will. Goodbye."

    Faith takes the phone back. "Hello?"

    "She seems really nice." Willow's voice is a bit tight.

    "Yeah?"

    "And...kinda Amish."

    "No kiddin'."

    "Can I...call you back?" Will's sounding distinctly choked up. "I have to --"

    "What?"

    "Um...have to --"

    Faith sighs. "Go for it. I'll be here."

    Some vague, strangled noise. "Take care."

    "You too."

    With a poker face of stone, Faith hits the OFF.

 

    Many miles away, the crowds stare curiously as they walk past the red-headed girl kneeling on the sidewalk, some stopping occasionally to assure themselves of their safety. Most gladly hurried on, but a few might have liked to been in on whatever it was that had left her on the concrete, near helpless; tears rolling down her cheeks, laughing, until it seemed she might choke up a lung.

 

**

 

    "Sorry." Faith tries not to breath too deep, more mindful than usual of cleavage. Her hostess stands some few steps away, casually looking her over head to toe in that same subtle, very-much not-staring.

    "You shouldn't be up."

    The hesitation is familiar, matching her own knotting tension inside. Didn't get out much in London, they haven't been back that long and she's still not used to normals. Par for the course she'd fall back on the time-honored method of human interaction, which is more or less exuding _can't touch this_.

    "I'm good." She finishes tucking her shirt in, wonders how many more times she can say it. "You should see the other guys."

    "My father, he buried the bodies. We know of others, they lost much stock --" The older woman frowns; concern mixing with something else, as if she can't quite place what's wrong. "What _were_ those things?"

    "Coyotes."

    The only response is a disbelieving look. Faith doesn't miss a beat.

    "_Mutant_ coyotes."

    "I see." Katie processes this. "You are...a game warden?"

    "Somethin' like that." She pulls on her jacket, hiding a wince. If Katie's fooled, she doesn't look it.

    "Will there be more?"

    "Wouldn't rule it out." She kneels for an unnecessary check of her bootlaces, avoiding eye contact. "Old feedin' grounds pretty much dried up overnight. Probably keep migratin' in from the coast --"

    Feels like she's mindlessly parroting Giles, succumbing to Willow-babble, and when she looks up at the prickle on the back of her neck the kid's standing in the doorway, again. Just like last night except he's dressed for the work day, pants with suspenders over a plain shirt, towhead bangs peeking from under a little black hat. Plus a heaping helping of hero worship in those big eyes, to raise her hackles another inch.

    Katie turns and sees him as well, makes a shooing motion with both hands.

    "_Ach_, away with you. I know you are not yet done."

    The boy swallows, staring up at Faith. "Thank you, miss."

    "All part of the job." She manages a friendly smile, doesn't shrug him off too bad. Let him down easy; don't get too comfortable.

    Keep moving.

    "My son Jacob." Katie looks ready to whisk him away after this brief introduction, though more for neglecting his chores than being led astray by the sight of his rescuer's chest. "Come along now, _raus_ \--"

    Her eyes drop as a taller, older and decidedly more bearded version of Jacob appears behind him, one hand on the boy's shoulder.

    "Anyway." Faith ignores the intrusion, still addressing Katie; feeling the man's eyes narrow under the brim of his own hat, as they zero in on her. "Not to be trespassin', so -- if it's okay, I'd like to do a sweep of the property before I head out. Make sure I didn't miss any stragglers."

    "_Opa_, can she stay for supper?"

    The boy might look innocent enough as he cranes his head around, but the brief flicker on that stern face says he's had plenty of practice. Faith's expecting a glare of disapproval, maybe some caustic Kraut comment, and the old guy doesn't disappoint on the first; not even a grunt as he turns and disappears down the hall, leaving Katie to offer a apologetic smile of relief, and Jacob follows in silence after one last look.

    "So, would you say that's a yes?" Faith sends a meaningful glance in the direction of the patriarch's exit. "Don't wanna be dodgin' any more bullets."

    "Oh, no." Katie shakes her head. "He would not shoot you. The gun is for hunting only."

    Faith decides to take this at face value. "Your father?"

    "_Ja_." Katie's having trouble meeting her gaze. "Jacob is named for him."

    "Cute kid." She almost doesn't ask. "Where's his dad?"

    Katie swallows. "An accident. At work --"

    She lifts her head and Faith knows she was right, should have trusted her instincts, shouldn't have asked a damn thing. Then Katie's shrugging it off, smiling and beckoning to the door; guiding her downstairs, hovering at arm's length like she's some invalid ready to keel over at the drop of a pretty floral bonnet.

    The rest of the house is pretty much what she expected, apart from the yummy kitchen smells that do a good deal to weaken her reluctance to stick around. They step outside and she can see Jacob Senior and his progeny hard at work fixing up the barn, by her untrained estimate already at least half-done repairing last night's damage. She's more impressed, or relieved, that the kid looks only briefly in their direction before returning to his labors.

    Katie takes her for a brief stroll to the east edge of the fence, pointing out the boundaries of their property. She also confirms the recent pattern of attacks, the style of mutilation left by the Nekitri in their sloppy, enthusiastic feeding.

    "If you wish, I can draw you a bath before supper."

    In almost any other circumstance, a change of subject this abrupt would be taken as an invitation to screw. Right now, she's just glad she won't have to forage and fend for herself.

    "Don't wanna put ya out. I mean --" She nearly bites her lip. "Wouldn't wanna be any trouble."

    "Don't be silly." Katie flushes again, as the Slayer gives her a sideways look. "And the outhouse is just over there, if you need..."

    "No problem." Faith nods with worldly assurance. "Got a lotta practice in --" She coughs. "Girl scout camp."

    She takes her time circling the perimeter, trying to pinpoint whatever's got her nerves just a touch off-kilter. The air is cold without being bitter, the ground slightly damp from recently departed snow. No sign of anything out of the ordinary, except for where it's like nothing she's known; the peace and quiet downright unnatural, so much she can't tell if it's getting to her. Guess it's true she very much considers herself electro-girl, all wired up and ready to rock. Welcome to the jungle, baby.

    She's debating giving a buzz back, doesn't want to interrupt some big guru meditation. Then she remembers Will's smart enough to turn off her phone when they go to the movies, let alone if it's gonna muck up an important spell. _Screw it._

    Her luck holds, with an answer on the first ring.

    "El Rancho Rosenberg -- you stab 'em, we slab 'em."

    She plops down on a convenient stump; good view east and west. "Sounds like someone's doin' better."

    "Kind of." Willow's doing optimistic-voice, trying to make the best of things with a flaming stove and a kitchen dripping in batter. "Even if I left now, you'd probably see her first. Don't know how she got that kind of head start --"

    "Hobo highway?" Faith feels a chill, remembering her own cross-country flight after her first Watcher's murder; her escape from Sunnydale, in the wake of the chaos she'd wrought wearing Buffy's skin.

    "Could be," Willow sighs. "All I know is she's headed your way. And I _have_ to get some sleep, because I'm really not safe to drive. But -- Xander made his changeover at the last minute, and he should be there tomorrow to give you a hand mopping up. And you'd _better_ not let him out of your sight." The pout is more than audible. "Because if he disappears again without us having dinner, after all this time? I'll have no choice but to put a big, fat hex all over his friend-ignoring butt."

    "Roger that." She plays it cool, can't help but suspect the X-Man's detour is to act as Giles' watchdog, sent surreptitiously to retrieve Dana as part of an _I warned you this would happen_ Cover Your Ass-a-thon.

    "Dunno how much moppin' I got for him. You could help pushin' a broom --"

    "You found the whole pack?" Willow's surprise and delight don't quite cover a skeptic note.

    "Checkin' the place out now. Clean so far." She tries to scratch the itch in her belly button, grimacing as she remembers the bandages, the almost-healed wounds beneath. Can still smell the Nekitri on her, almost three days of her own blood and sweat. Maybe oughtta take Katie up on that offer.

    "So our mini-werewolves haven't managed to put out any puppies? Of the non-adorable kind?"

    Faith rolls her eyes, wishing the visual wasn't being lost.

    "Yeah. About that -- I put these more on the maxi side."

    "Really?" She can hear hamsters racing at full speed, as Willow collates data. "That's funny. I thought Giles said --"

    "Yeah, 'Giles said'. And how many has _he_ gone up against in the field? 'Cause I took down three last night, up close and personal."

    "Sweetie, we know you're the hands-on expert." Willow sounds calm, soothing, taking her snark in stride. "I'm just saying -- most of these old woodcuts are a joke. We could really use some decent pictures."

    "Hello? Not packin' a Quick Snap. Not playin' tourist." She reconsiders a moment. "Could always jam a camera down their throat. But these disposables are kinda cheap. Not like those old heavy ones, really put a dent in your skull --"

    Willow exhales, the faintest edge to her voice. "Why do you have to always do that?"

    "'Cause it's what I do. And you know it." Faith closes her eyes a second; forces her voice to soften as she gazes over the fields. "'Sides, ain't like I'm turnin' into Buffy, 'cause -- well, 'cause then I'd have to kill myself." Another exasperated exhale brings out her own grin, no longer reluctant. "What? Like you original Scoobies are the only ones allowed to be funny?"

    "You mean --"

    She rolls her eyes again. "Yeah, _try_ to be funny. 'Scuse me."

    "So I can tell Giles no females? Pregnant or otherwise?"

    Back to business. Fine by her. "All guys, all dead."

    "Hundred percent?"

    She doesn't take the bait. "Will, I sat through the lecture. Guys got the stubby tail, girls got the bushy." She considers. "Plus I think one tried to hump my leg."

    "Great. You've inherited Xander's curse." Sardonic, but Faith's starting to get a handle on the dry-wit deal. "Just wait 'til _he_ gets there."

    She gives a jaunty grin, thinks she should have a hat and cigar. Definitely a bullwhip. "Double demon magnet goodness."

    "That's my girl." And _now_ Will sounds all sweet and affectionate and it makes her remember near three years with only the touch of her own hands to stay warm in her cell; how Buffy Summers had made the idea of _girl_ go from a nice diversion to something unspeakably needful. How she would have killed for a Doublemeat and a hard cock when she first got out of prison, yet these last months with Willow, making up for lost time, are making her see female hotness everywhere. Turning her into some great big lesbo, and maybe that bath idea's not such a great one after all.

    "Gotta --" She clears her throat. "Finish this up."

    "Love you." So goddamn _casual_, never like Willow expects to hear it back.

    So fucking stupid the words freeze on her own lips, every time.

    "'Too."

 

**

 

    Her hands are stiff with cold by the time she completes her coverage of the grounds, the tip of her nose has long gone likewise numb. Sunset's a few hours away but still early this time of year, stretching long shadows over the barn that's already starting to look better than new. No sign of knife or bow, but Faith refuses to let her spirits be dampened as she ambles toward the house, led by even yummier smells than before.

    She almost knocks, hesitates a moment before opening the door.

    "Looks clean --" She's rubbing her hands as she enters the kitchen, looks up at the sound of a shush to see Jacob Senior in the next room, hatless and snoozing by the fire in a rocking chair. Might not ever get off on the right foot with this guy, but Faith figures anyone carrying around that many decades and putting in a decent work day has more than earned the right to a siesta.

    She awkwardly tucks her hair back, stands straighter when his mother's imperious eyebrow makes Junior go straight back to chopping potatoes. He's still sneaking an occasional glance their way when Mom _bustles_ 'round the corner -- no other word, for what she's doing.

    "Would you like some tea?" Katie's voice is low as she sends a worried look toward her sleeping father. "It will be some time, before we eat."

    "No -- look, that's --" Faith bites down a growl of frustration. Thought she was ready to say all the right things, but she's just spinning her wheels. "Really appreciate the offer, but --"

    A half-snore resounds from the next room, abruptly cuts off in a way that makes Faith look despite herself. "He okay?"

    "Trouble sleeping, sometimes --" But Katie's worry is barely contained, and when the sound comes again she's off in a flurry of skirts, by the old man's side in a heartbeat. "Papa?"

    Twitching in the chair, and Faith can't tell if he's having a seizure or what, the fuck, is he _choking_ \--

    "_Papa!_"

 

**


	3. frogfarm: Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x01: "Big Country" (Act 2)

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**Current mood:** | determined  
---|---  
**Entry tags:** |   
[fanfic](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/tag/fanfic), [ftvs](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/tag/ftvs)  
  
  
_ **Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x01: "Big Country" (Act 2)** _

Made Act 2 by the end of the month! At this rate, I'll be writing the finale from the retirement home.

But enough of my petty problems. *You* want to know what's up with...

 

**Faith the Vampire Slayer**

 

1x01: "Big Country"

Act 2

 

([teaser](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/58356.html))  
([Act 1](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/58532.html#cutid1))

 

**

 

   Even before the infirmary Faith's seen more than her share, been the cause of worse. Wasn't two weeks out of her second stint in solitary the counselor recommended her, over short but strenuous objection. Buckled quick to get the bitch off her back, but her iron stomach took a tumble the day Little Larry -- real name reversed, a gruff but gentle biker, towered over her like a mountain -- came in carried by two nurses, covered in blood, shaft of a pen protruding from his beefy neck. She took him off their hands, helped lay him down no problem and then the doctor made some crack about the trach being already done and something about hearing that mountain of man reduced to these little wheezing moans added up to her lasting less than a minute before making a run for the sink.

   Which was about twenty seconds longer than Larry. And by the time the doctor finished filling out forms, got rid of the nurses once they'd signed, she was still there at the counter and he didn't say jack shit.

   Pretty much the only reason she came back.

   She did her time, learned the basics if not much beyond, but Katie's panic cuts through everything else. All Faith can think is to loosen the guy's goddamn collar as she steps, almost stumbles forward. Taut and ragged nerves aflame; vision going grey, the oil lamp dances and hums...

   She blinks, hand outstretched. Some dark and fuzzy _ripple_, in the air --

   She jerks back -- can't help it when his eyes fly open, shocking blue, however faded. Then he's sitting up, drawing shuddering breath, and Faith shakes her head like a drowned hound; blinks again, sight contracting to normal.

   Junior's run up beside them, barefoot with dripping hands, Katie fallen silent with one arm supporting her father around the shoulders. The weird, out of body feeling is gone, leaving a hole in her gut that only grows colder when the old man regains his bearings, visibly shutting down as she registers in his eyes and by the time he's on his feet, steady as a rock, the withdrawal is complete.

   That the family takes this in stride and allow him passage holds her in like check, falling back to neutral on foreign ground. Faith doesn't try to follow Katie's low, rapid German, intent on observing Senior's gait as he walks away, ascends the stairswell. Not sure what she's looking for; wondering if she only imagines the fleeting itch below and behind her belly button, just beneath the skin.

   Little Jacob heads back to the kitchen, the look over his shoulder leaving her to wonder how ripe she's gotten after three days. Or whether Katie expects her to borrow more civilized clothes, before allowing unsupervised contact with her offspring.

   "That happen a lot?"

   Katie turns, a deer in her headlights. Faith meets the older woman's eyes; grey as a stormy sky.

   "It is not the first time. No."

   "Are you, like -- allowed to see a doctor?"

   A pained look, of obvious strain. "That is not --" Katie lets out a deep breath, in this slow, exhausted sigh.

   "I made him go, last year, to the hospital. They found nothing wrong. He will not go again."

   "Don't blame him." Faith ignores whatever it is she's put her foot in. "Seems pretty spry to me."

   "Are you a doctor?"

   Katie's skepticism borders on sarcastic. Faith has to give props, even as she returns the gaze with implacable calm.

   "Nah." She flexes her fingers, resisting a knuckle crack. "More about puttin' the hurt _on_."

   Katie gives a start, and the forecast returns to flustery. "Your bandages. They should be changed."

   Faith gives in, with less of a fight than she might have put up a moment ago. Whether her unnatural healing rate will be a hot topic is beside the point, which is proving she can deal with all this unresolved sexual tension. And a little harmless fun. Reassure herself she's still got game.

   She follows to the washroom, noting the lack of mirrors that automatically raise her vamp hackles; strips out of her shirt without saying a word or blinking an eye, dismissing the expected astonishment that leads to fewer questions than she dared imagine. Katie chalks it up to youthful vigor, and Faith doesn't reply with some snappy comment about clean living. Especially with her traitorous nipples trying to pop from their cotton prison and say _howdy_. Thinking the subject of that bath is about due to surface, again --

   "I think I can help."

   She can feel the thoughts die on her lips, fleeting as Katie looks up with renewed surprise and-or suspicion. Unfamiliar territory, but she forges on; forcing deliberate, proper enunciation.

   "Your dad. When he was having his attack, or whatever -- I think he was. Literally." Katie's expression is unreadable, and Faith crosses mental fingers. "Being attacked."

   Silence stretches into an uncomfortable pause, as Katie wrings out the cloth.

   "See, there are some -- things. That can hurt people." She struggles for words while Katie wipes away the last of the blood, switching to a dry towel. "Like what I killed, but harder to see. Even invisible. And there's some...things, that can protect you. Against them."

   Katie finishes blotting her side; opens a tube of antobiotic cream, finally looking her in the eye.

   "You said they were coyotes."

   "This thing, with your dad...might be different." Saying shit without saying it? She's had so little practice as not to count. "But if I'm right, we can drive it off. Like a nuisance, like -- coyotes. Not human."

   "Invisible." Katie sets the cream back on the sideboard, picks up fresh gauze. "And you say you have weapons?"

   "Yeah, but -- those are mine. There's other ways." She might be fighting a blush, but not from these hands touching her; strong and lightly calloused, almost professional in their delicacy. "Like -- uh, herbs...some plants..." Doing her best to remember, what the hell does Will use? "Y'know, mix it up right, maybe...say some stuff, and --"

   "I ask the church to pray for him." Katie winds a bandage around Faith's ribcage, somehow managing to not look her in the eye or boobs. "Every night, I pray for him. We all do."

   "Well, yeah, but --" She takes a deep breath. "_This_ is my job."

   Now those grey eyes have gone stern. As in, the storm may have broken.

   "Faith." Katie visibly collects herself. "What you say now...what you said before...I would like to trust you, but I --" Her lips twist in a frown. "I'm not some superstitious girl."

   "No. I wasn't --"

   "The doctors found nothing. That they know of, _ja_?" Katie starts packing up the dressings, quick and efficient.

   "Yeah. This is just a little --"

   "Anything else, I was taught to pray." Her hostess stands, heading straight for the door.

   "Yeah, but --"

   "But you are not quite being honest with me." Katie stops, turns enough to meet her face. "Are you?"

   Her cheeks go hot. "I -- Katie, I'm just..." Normal person, total stranger with a Playstation, fridge and a car and how the hell do you ask them to let you use fucking _magic_?

   "Then until you are? Perhaps you should not say much."

   Faith just nods, misery complete.

   "When you are, I will be here."

   The door clicks shut.

   _Yep_, Faith thinks, waiting out the urge to break stuff. _That went well_.

 

**

 

   The weather outside is far from frightful, but it's more than a match for the chill within as Faith exits the house, pulling on her jacket, retrieving the precious phone. Her link to sanity and civilization, if not in that order.

   She hits speed dial two, scans her surroundings while she waits for a pickup. Just her and the animals, and --

   "Hello, Faith."

   "G-man." Talk about reflex, the guilt when she hears that voice. Can't help but wonder if he's already talked to Willow, gotten the scoop on their wayward babe, until she realizes what's wrong. He sounds _happy_.

   Glad to hear from her.

   "What can I do for you?" Still pleasant, every inch as business.

   "Spare a minute for a girl lookin' up some dusty old books?"

   Keys click in the background. "I'll have you know carpal tunnel has surpassed black lung as the Watcher's foremost occupational hazard."

   "You sure? I know they're big on trottin' you out for all the Sunday meetin'."

   "For you, I'll gladly make time." And the genuine affection makes her think already she's feeling better. Like none of this other crap matters.

   "Ain't gonna be a lot." She checks her pocket for smokes. Down to two. "Been a couple days without a charge. Probably go out any minute."

   "You should see if your hosts use a gas generator. Many in such communities even own a single telephone, for collective use."

   So much for lack of of Willow contact. Giles continues, oblivious.

   "They do call themselves a plain people, but you might be surprised at their technical sophistication --"

   "Yeah. Already got the whole 'we're not ignorant savages'." She pulls back on her reins, trying not to vent. "And I ain't makin' friends with the tight lip. Hell, half the time I'm just tryin' not to swear --"

   She stops again, conscious he isn't reminding her to hurry. Fills him in via rapid-fire free association, some prompting for keywords; going on to describe Jacob's symptoms, the prickling of her Slayer sense.

   "Any of this ringin' a bell?"

   "A veritable cathedral." The distracted tone is an echo of Willow's, brain half following as keys continue to chatter. "Even without including mystical references, entire libraries have been written on the subject of sleep, and dreams..."

   She interrupts before he can go off on more tangent.

   "I need this chick on my side. But I mighta pissed her off with all the crazy voodoo talk."

   The keyclicks pause. "Traditional friction, between Christian belief and the supernatural? Or --"

   "Remember who you're talkin' to? She who kicks ass?"

   Usually the point where she gets another mini-lecture, on how she's smarter than she thinks. Giles remains Mister Efficient.

   "There are any number of spells that make no mention of pagan gods. The Jewish Kabbalah, though generally regarded as heretical --" A cleared throat, as he collects his thoughts.

   "Perhaps Willow can assist you in persuading this woman. Low churches are often quite congenial to herbal folk remedies."

   Faith leans against the fence, eyes drawn to the barn as the new door swings open. Junior shuts it behind him and heads toward the house, waves when he spots her. She's semi-heartedly returning the gesture when she sees the curtain fall to in the upstairs window; no sign of anyone, by the time she looks.

   "Ya think?"

   "Certainly. Classical European sorcerers invoked the names of the Trinity to control demons, then claimed they themselves were not evil because they used God to control them." The dry tone somehow goes drier still. "Which was spectacularly unhelpful when they were tied to a burning stick."

   She snorts, but Giles is still talking.

   "Orthodox Christianity is quite clear. Demons are to be banished, not treated with. As long as your purpose is merely to dispel evil -- if you can come up with something like a prayer, relying only on the one God -- your friend may prove more than willing."

   Faith resists another snort. "Yeah. We're bosom buddies." And so what if she'd been the one to purposely tarnish that shiny first impression?

   "In any case." Giles doesn't rise to the challenge. "I've an appointment in thirty minutes, but rest assured that until then, my devotion to your inquiries will be complete. And -- Faith?"

   "Yeah?"

   A glimmer of smile. "Try to keep an open mind?"

   "Any opener, my brains'd be fallin' out." He chuckles, which she takes as perfect cue. "Cheers."

   She's putting the phone away when her stomach growls, loud enough to scare demons. Unless they took it for a mating call. Trying not to second-guess what might be in store, after weeks of British cuisine have developed her appreciation for Indian food. Thinking, as she crosses the yard, that it won't be a problem if dinner tastes half as good as it smells.

   Little Jacob's out of his hat and jacket when she comes in, sleeves rolled up as he earnestly dispenses silverware. Grandfather stands by the stove, not exactly angry, somehow disapproving. Maybe surprised, as Faith herself, at the variety of bounty laid before them. No holiday extravangaza, but all kinds of tasties from soup to nuts; fresh biscuits, some kind of slaw. Even the carrots smell good.

   She heads for the sink, nodding at Katie as she starts to scrub up. Might not know which side the napkin goes on, but she can do civilized.

   Jacob Senior just looks at her, eyes more intense than ever. Faith drops her gaze to soapy hands, refusing against all instinct to get caught up playing chicken; feeling more than seeing as he turns and leaves. Probably just ticked they threw a dinner in _her_ honor.

   "He will be back." Katie doesn't turn from the stewpot. "Do not concern yourself."

   _Not my job_, Faith almost-retorts. Or her problem. Unless he tries to make it one. She dries off and takes a seat -- frickin' _pews_, practically; one on each side, a chair at each end of the table.

   "I talked to an expert." Katie's eyes dart to Junior, and Faith tries to up the reassurance. "Last thing I want is to intrude, but I'd appreciate it if you could smooth things out. Y'know -- with your dad."

   "If it can be done." Katie still sounds a bit porcupiney, resulting in a curious look from the kid.

   "Mama, what's wrong?"

   "Nothing." Katie pulls the kettle from the flame. "Go and see to him. I worry, about those stairs."

   The kid lingers in the doorway. Faith's stomach rumbles again, and the other woman seems to relent.

   "We won't let her leave without a decent meal. Go on, now."

   He grins wide, sobers before turning, trotting off double time.

   Faith sits on a pew, trying not to twiddle her thumbs; wanting to volunteer, figuring she'll only be in the way. Katie returns the favor, not saying a word as she finishes setting table, even when Jacob returns holding his grandfather by the hand. They silently take their places, and a horrible premonition tugs at her gut.

   Thankfully, her reputation as a crappy psychic remains intact when nobody asks her to say grace. She follows Junior's lead when he bows his head, and his mom gives thanks to the Lord for the food on their plates, the health of themselves and others in the church. That the family is together, this last with a sadness that evokes this vague vision of Grandma at the foot of the table; Katie's husband beside her, always trying to measure up to the old man.

   She bites down a growl, as she joins the flock in their amen. Not psychic.

   Slayer.

   Might be imagination, but she fancies old Jacob's scowl is a little less intense. Still, she continues to play the part; refraining from compliments that might puff up pride, letting silent appreciation speak for itself. Some kinda weird corn relishy thing --

   "Were you raised in a religious household?"

   Faith looks up, nearly startled out of a mouthful of stew. Katie near-blushes.

   "I know it's no business of mine." Katie sips her tea, covering the awkward. "Curiosity was always my greatest sin. I just wondered, with your name --"

   "Catholic." No matter how much she hates nuns. Looks like Uncle Tim was dead on, because that shuts that topic right down; Katie changing subjects so fast her head threatens to spin off.

   "I'm glad you are feeling better."

   Faith restrains a smirk as she passes salad down to the kid.

   "Your friend said she would be here soon, to fetch you. But if you have no other place to stay..."

   Never let it be said she doesn't recognize an opening.

   "Long as it ain't no trouble." She risks the briefest sidelong glance. Old man's not even looking their way. "And if anything needs doin' -- I don't mind pitchin' in."

   Katie shakes her head. "Oh, no. You are hurt still. We couldn't possibly --"

   "Seriously. I could use the exercise." Faith spears a stray carrot with her fork, meeting Katie's eyes. "I'm not real good at sittin' still."

   "_Opa_, why does she have to leave?"

   From the corner of one eye, she can see Jacob's beard bristle at his grandson's first contribution. Wonders how far he can be pushed; trying to judge how hard he'll push back, as the kid's chin starts to take on a familiar jut of its own.

   "If she's hurt, we should take care of her --"

   "Hey," Faith interjects. Junior looks back all cow-eyed, but it's Grandpa's expression that keeps her tone friendly. "How's about you let _me_ worry about me. _Capiche_?"

   Junior's face falls, along with his gaze, back to his plate. The lack of manipulation makes it harder to suppress another growl.

   "Don't get me wrong -- I'm all kinds of grateful for the patchin' up. And not plannin' on abusin' anyone's hospitality." She takes a sip of milk, wipes away the mustache. "Might be around another day or two, but don't worry. Be outta your hair quick as a bunny."

   From the look-with-a-capital the man gives his daughter, you'd think Faith just proposed; bordering more on angry than ever, until he does his own about-face, diving back to his stew.

   The remainder of the meal passes without a word. Fine by her, until Grandpa pushes back his chair, rises stiffly and takes his leave without so much as a by-yours. Katie and Junior on the edge of their seats like any minute she's going to go off, and maybe Faith _is_ pissed. Except she's also trying to come up with a tactful way to find out when or how this guy's tongue got tied so bad. Especially when everyone else seems to be avoiding the subject.

   "You finished feeding?"

   She pushes her plate away, nearly responds before realizing Katie's not talking to her. Jacob hops from his chair, runs to the door and grabs up hat and coat; catching the door before it can slam, with a grin at his mom's admonishment, something Faith really wishes she understood. How the fuck many languages does Giles talk? _Read...write...do?_

   "Want a hand?"

   Katie pauses in her cleanup. Faith gives in to a sigh.

   "How 'bout we just pretend this is the part where you get all gracious and _if you're sure it's not a bother_?"

   Katie ducks her head. "You must think I'm terribly rude."

   Faith shrugs it off again. "Hey, I'm the one wasn't bein' honest. Accordin' to you." She eyes the other woman in speculation. "'Less I wasn't the only one."

   Katie's gaze nearly whips back up. "I have not lied to you --"

   "Easy, pilgrim." Faith holds up one hand. "Not sayin' you did. Look --" Time for a change in tactics.

   "I already talked to my expert. Now I wanna talk to yours."

   Katie pauses, ire giving way to confusion.

   "When folks get sick around here, not bad enough to go to the hospital. Who do they go to? Village wise woman, whatever you call her." Comprehension looks to be sinking in, but Faith isn't sure if she's still giving offense. "Or wise guy. I'm equal opportunity --"

   "My mother."

   "Oh." Cue the complete-shitheel feeling.

   "I never knew her. She took ill, when I was very young."

   _And the pile just gets deeper._ Katie's still talking; facing away, shoulders visibly tense under her blouse.

   "Some of the older women...they told me her mother, my _oma_, she used to do these little charms and such. Or thought she did." Now Katie looks back at her. It's not pretty. "Some of them blamed my mother, for not going to the doctor."

   _That's fucked_, Faith nearly blurts out.

   "I put her things in the attic." Katie lifts her chin, that same definite family trait now visible in the stubborn set of her jaw. "If you feel they could be of use."

   "Well -- this is a bit outside my normal field. Usually someone else does the heavy thinking, and I kick the as--" Katie blushes again, and Faith nearly backtracks, decides it's a lost cause.

   "But trust me -- nothin' unholy goin' on. We're just askin' for some extra help."

 

**

 

   She doesn't make the mistake of thinking that hump's the hardest to get over, and the safety of her assumption is quickly proven the minute Jacob Junior comes back inside and Katie clams right back up. A momentary awkwardness, that might have ticked her off a good deal more if she weren't at that moment up to her elbows in soapsuds. Kid's chattering away about the state of the livestock and Faith's only half-listening, doing her best not to break the good plain china, when her jacket bursts into classic rock from its place on the bench.

   _In a white room, with black curtains --_

   "Crap --" Faith swallows, seeing Jacob's smile; his mother's bemusement or disapproval. "Sorry. Can you grab that?"

   Katie manages to wrestle the pocket open while Faith's drying her hands. She takes the phone with a rueful look, hits Talk before the chorus can kick in.

   "What's up, G?"

   The pained wince comes through loud and clear, but he's learned to refrain from further reaction.

   "I have a list of ingredients. Commonly used herbs, with emphasis on local availability. If I could have just a moment with -- Katie, is it?"

   She hands off the phone, another unexplained lump rising in her throat. Dries a few dishes to keep her hands busy, letting Jacob deal with putting away; kid thankfully silent, but her frustration continues to simmer as she listens to Katie in the background, accent more pronounced as she warms to Giles. Just like Faith knew she would.

   Just like Willow.

   What the fuck do they have she doesn't?

   It's forever until Katie touches her shoulder, gives the phone back. For some reason, Faith doesn't want to look too close in her eyes.

   "Yeah?"

   _"Though I didn't put it to her in these terms -- it's possible that your abilities as a Slayer allowed you to glimpse something most people wouldn't normally perceive."_

   She grabs her coat, shrugs it on with a nod. "Back in a bit. Gonna take this outside."

   Katie accepts this as the courtesy intended, and Faith can hear her as the door shuts behind her; something about the price of convenience.

   "So my crime lab cohorts are gonna cook up some fingerprint powder."

   "Precisely." Stupid, how easy that warm chuckle takes the edge off the chill evening air.

   How desperate she still must be for his approval.

   "Wish it was that easy to suss out _people_. Not just demons, y'know?"

   "I'm afraid we both know even demons can be...something of a grey area." A light sigh. "But I gather your concerns are more specific."

   "Yeah. I mean, I dunno. Don't wanna be jumpin' to any conclusions." Her eyes have already adjusted; moon riding high and dim in the nighttime sky.

   "Maybe it's me, I expect the worst. But if I followed this whole creeped out Flowers in the Attic vibe where it _feels_ like it's headed -- I'd think we're dealin' with a ghost."

   Giles digests this a moment. "Of?"

   "Katie's husband. Dad killed him. Or maybe just looked the other way, when he had his little quote-unquote, accident?"

   "You _do_ have a morbid turn of mind," he chuckles. "Didn't I warn you children of the dangers of too much television?"

   "Just throwin' out possibilities. Keepin' an open mind. And, by the way -- Jessica Fletcher? Total mass murderer."

   Giles snorts before regaining his serious.

   "True. If this man met with foul play, you could very likely have some sort of spirit on your hands. But, as you say -- try not to assume the worst. Particularly if it could jeopardize a working relationship with your hosts."

   "Ain't _that_ the truth." He can't see her and still Faith's standing up straight; trying not to fidget. "Aren't they like some of those African tribes Xander was writin' about? Don't want ya takin' their picture?"

   "For the most part. Less so, among Mennonites --"

   A distinct sense of vindication. "Told her it was a bad idea."

   "I beg your pardon?"

   "Just Will. Wantin' me carryin' a camera around like some lame-ass tourist."

   "Yes -- she mentioned the discussion. Apparently, she had _not_ had opportunity to remind you that your cellphone can take rather good pictures." He clears his throat, as diplomatically as possible. "As she also said she demonstrated, when she first gave it to you?"

   "Great." Faith keeps an easy tone, though her cheeks feel the hint of a burn. "Next thing you know, ol' Jed's gonna show me how it surfs the web."

   Quick and easy, from there on out. Faith's snapped the phone shut, swapped it for the less crumpled of her last two smokes before she realizes he hasn't so much as mentioned Dana. She's digging for her lighter, assuming the worst, when she looks back at the house.

   A light flickers, in the window upstairs.

   Faith tucks her cigarette behind one ear, pulls her phone out without opening it; holds it to her ear like she's talking, resumes casual barnward ambulation. Toward the far corner, where the moon doesn't shine.

   On the one hand, there's respecting privacy. Then there's deliberately, stupidly keeping yourself in the dark.

   Besides. Time for a test drive.

   She pulls out the lighter. Snaps it open, shut, as she gauges distance. Slips it back in her pocket and before she can change her mind she's up on the fencepost, from there one long step up, kicking off to grab a roof joist, one solid piece of ancient timber. Dangling a moment by both hands, feeling the tug of newly healed skin; finally giving in and flipping up, over

   _ow_

   _watch the tits_

   landing with barely a rattle. Stitches and cigarette, still in place.

   Smokin'.

   Up here's as old school as the rest of the building; steep tin, unexpectedly squeaky under her boots. She follows the line of nails in slow, deliberate steps, compensating for angle and dew. Close to the edge, crouching when the back door comes in view. Both eyes on the window, ears tuned for animal spookage below.

   Better angle she couldn't ask for. Perfect view of Jacob inside, his back to the window; standing before a dresser, hands clutching at the sides of its open top drawer. Night vision and Slayer sight may not be satellite view, but it does the job.

   A faint, muffled knock reaches her ears. Jacob's shoulders hunch up, head turning as he shuts the drawer.

   Faith's interest flares anew, and then the boy appears; staying at a respectful distance, watching the old man's shoulders sag as he lowers himself to the bed. Kid's not afraid to get close now, and even if she doesn't read lips she's got a good handle on what's what. _Crazy outsider woman only here to help. Why you so mean?_

   And Grandpa still ain't talking. But the look in his eyes says it all:

   _This chick is bad news._

   Faith watches, guilt rising fresh as the old guy brings his hand up; flinches when he ruffles the kid's hair, shoos him out the door.

   She backs her way down, going slow and quiet 'til she's close enough to step off the roof. Lands stiff legged with a thud, ground giving way beneath her unrelenting heels; stashes the unlit cigarette and heads back toward the house. Wishing she had Willow to talk to, and not only about whatever ingredients Katie might have lying around.

   Not sure she could tell even Will just how dirty a bad girl can feel, trying to be the good guy.

 

**

 

   The sun set hours ago. All decent folk abed; not a sound from the stock. Only the rhythm of nature. The creak and echo of the house, as it breathes.

   And yet he wishes for complete darkness.

   So he won't have to see.

   _Night fractured all around in blinding flashes, illuminating with fatal clarity the dead and dying. Screams echo, deafening._

   Powerless to move. To fight the cold hand, that presses down upon him.

   He cannot breathe.

 

**


	4. frogfarm: Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x01: "Big Country" (Act 3)

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**Current mood:** | decisive  
---|---  
**Current music:** |  [Coroner](http://www.designvortex.com/coroner/)  
**Entry tags:** |   
[fanfic](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/tag/fanfic), [ftvs](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/tag/ftvs)  
  
  
_ **Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x01: "Big Country" (Act 3)** _

Just when a fresh round of kerfuffling was getting nicely off the ground, I have to go and declare this done.

Apologies for the long delay -- but I think I have all the problems ironed out of act 4. Writing it now.

Hope this was worth the wait, and that the next be shorter.

In the meantime...

 

**Faith the Vampire Slayer**

 

1x01: "Big Country"

Act 3

 

([teaser](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/58356.html))  
([Act 1](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/58532.html#cutid1))  
([Act 2](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/61194.html#cutid1))

 

   His struggle increases, with each unending moment. To no avail.

 

   (_no hope or light_)

 

   (_nor will to fight_)

 

   The dead weight grows upon his chest.

 

**

 

   Faith's been a night owl for years, long before being Called, but it didn't take time in the big house to know there's an ocean of vastness between dancing away the small hours and the mostly mindless boredom that is guard duty. Note also that waiting, for good or bad, has always been one of her notoriously piss-poor skills; factor in one overeager hostess with a cultural gap the size of the Grand Canyon, and it's easy to see how things might go south without warning.

   Should have known, from how smooth they'd been. Katie indeed proved a willing conspirator once the house's male occupants were safely in bed, unearthing from the attic a small wooden chest; reluctance fading as she translated her mother's scant written notes, then assisted with growing confidence in the subsequent mixing of fairy dust. Though Faith didn't call it that out loud. Even the crowning touch of improvised prayer over the resulting sparkly stuff proved unremarkable. No, the reason they're trapped in this latest prickly silence, on watch outside the old man's door, is not the bizarre ritual they've engaged in, or even its intended purpose. By normal definitions of bizarre, and after six years as a Slayer her own standards can be severe. Just that Katie made some offhand comment, not even a crack, something about Faith being English, and of course any normal person -- the missing context, she discovers too late -- is gonna have _some_ reaction.

   Less said about hers, the better.

   She's been sitting since. Meditating, or something like it; hearing the click of knitting needles, the occasional creak of timber when the wind blows. But mostly waiting for her moment.

   Gotta be why she almost misses it. That and the sore ass without the accompanying fun; sitting in this damn chair, wondering how long until sunrise.

   When something snaps her upright. No knowing why --

   Memory returns seconds later, at faint choking on the other side of the door. On her feet in an instant, adrenaline surge as she fumbles with the knob, Katie right behind her and they're in, too late to worry about false alarms though Jacob's distress appears the same as before. Her fingers feel like they're encased in mittens, fumbling with the pouch at her waist; flinging their single handful of dust over his twitching body with a silent prayer of her own...

   Again that ripple in the air. Faint sound like a sneeze --

   Her eardrums threaten to burst, along with the air. And this new sound she knows too well.

   Pain.

   Katie gasps, covering her ears. Faith has just time to wonder what's next when the old man convulses, arching off the bed and the window

   _explodes_

   in a glittering spray of glass. Curtains dance in the breeze as Jacob sits up, clutching his chest.

   To her credit, Katie looks far from hysterical; clearly shaken, eyes bright with unspoken questions. But the old man already appears fully recovered: Cheeks flushed with color under the flowing beard, air of authority completely undiminished by faded longjohns, and this might be the healthiest Faith's seen him yet.

   "Mama?" As if on cue, the younger Jacob peers in, bare legs and feet sticking out below his nightshirt, hair standing equally on end. "What's going on?"

   "Nothing." Katie collects herself. "Go get dressed, now."

   He obeys without hesitation.

   Katie's already headed for the broom in the corner, but her father rises from the bed, freezing her with an imperious gesture; grabbing pants and suspenders from a nearby chair and starting to dress, as he surveys the remains of the window. Like they're not even there, and even if Faith was ready to be offended, she's not in the mood to push. Back or otherwise.

   She makes a quiet exit, hand on her phone before remembering Willow's still asleep. _If she knows what's good for her..._

   "What happened in there?"

   Faith turns to find Katie, arms crossed, expression befitting a woman straining to remain calm.

   "Not sure." She keeps her voice low, though the boy's door is safely shut. "Did you see anything?"

   "No. Just the noise, that --" Katie swallows, crosses herself with a shakey hand. "Screaming."

   "So, whatever it was -- we hurt it." Faith doesn't add the obvious. "I can make another call, in the morning --"

   Katie gets a more normal look, the kind that clearly says Faith's insane. "It _is_ morning."

   "Oh -- right." Easy to forget some people actually get up about now.

   "Couple hours, then. But if it's still on offer?" Faith stretches and pops, grimacing at the smell of herself. "Believe I'll take that bath."

 

**

 

   Water might not be running, but it's plenty warm. Already she's been lounging way longer than she ought to; grooving like some Old West high society gal, milking the hedonism for all it's worth. Not hard after roughing it these past days.

   She can't quite shake the feeling lurking in the back of her mind, of some inevitable downside to this unaccustomed life of leisure, but other questions crowd for consideration. Like the tub itself: More than dubious at first glance; high-backed, faded white enamel on iron or steel, Faith had wondered why it didn't collapse through the floor, then remembered a club pickup who boasted a waterbed that weighed less than a fridge. A hose next to the window seems to be the drain, and should she leave water for the next person? Some things you don't think to ask until you're in a lather.

   Katie had fussed over her side, the level and temperature of the water and more until Faith pulled off the bandage to show how well the healing was going. Still a fading sting, some raw spots as she runs a soapy cloth over fuzzy legs, wondering if Katie shaves; if her husband even owned a razor.

   Suds foam between her legs as she rolls to one side, exposing new skin. Starting to match the other itch down there. Whoever said the woods were a romantic getaway hadn't been hunting wild game that was hunting them back. Between demons and Dana, her last real opportunity to pin Willow to a set of bedsprings was longer ago than she cares to think. Not that she let babysitting stop her -- at the time -- but Will had gotten the distinct impression their ward enjoyed listening in.

   Faith got it too. Kept it to herself, figured what the hell -- kid's gonna be curious. Hardly unaccustomed herself to an audience: Her own first time punctuated by the El passing over his open '85 Mustang convertible, elbows on the back of his front seat; gazing past the trunk toward the half-moon over the Charles; hair wild in the slipstream, ends whipping her chest.

   She had told Will that story in the car, before England. Sprawled low in the seat, one hand down her jeans, then retold it. Put young Willow there, in a friend's car. Two middle schoolers experimenting.

   They stopped at the first decent motel.

   By four in the morning, they'd made it to the outdoor pool. Faith offered every kind of bribe to get Red to swim in her underwear, but the witch insisted on her one piece. No matter. Didn't take much to bring those strawberry tips to attention; not a lot of flirting, casual readjusting of the suit, to keep them riding high.

   Best of all, though, was the sauna after. She'd never been in one, but Faith was an instant convert when they cranked it to Volcano, steam rising from their skin, drinking ice water from a giant insulated cup. Finally coaxed Will out of her top, then down on the cedar bench, blue-green eyes blinking up at her as Slayer hands drew slow circles on delicate, freckled shoulders.

   By the time backrub turned to a slow, hard grind it was near morning, kid voices penetrating the thick door. Made their dazed, lazy way back to their room, refilled the cup on the way; turned the shower hot as they could stand for at least the next hour --

   A quiet knock makes her fingers dig, in a painful spot.

   Faith swallows a curse. Yanks back the offending hand; slides down, skin be damned. Enough to cover her chest. Ten-_hut_.

   "Yeah."

   Katie's head pokes through the doorway.

   "Oh. You should keep that out of the water, dear."

   "Just rinsin' off." She gingerly accepts the proffered towel, keeping the twins submerged; feeling more a nervous girl than since she actually was. Seems about a damn forever ago.

   "Thanks."

   Katie smiles, round cheeks dimpling, then turns and fusses over the dresser. Faith takes the hint and stands, wrapping herself as decently as the meager cloth will allow.

   "We should rinse your wound, from the bath." Katie hasn't turned back. Faith notices the porcelain bowl atop the chest of drawers, along with fresh bandages.

   "Uh, yeah." She clears her throat, tries not to sound too eager. "Good call."

   Somehow she keeps it together; holds the towel steady, indulging in brief, brutal fantasy. But when those hands stop touching and she opens her eyes, sees Katie reach for the dressings, it's time to quit tempting fate.

   "It's okay." She flashes her best smile. Hopes that's all she's flashing. "You've been great, but -- I can reach it now."

   She nearly bites off her own tongue. But Katie just hands over the supplies, with a look of resignation.

   "Don't be too long. Or you find breakfast cold." Something like a twinkle in Katie's eye. "Maybe all gone, _ja_?"

   Faith stands there clutching her towel, watching the door swing shut. Relieved only in the broadest sense; deciding, with no small reluctance, that even a quickie is no longer an option.

   Wondering when she went from nervous girl, to just plain _boy_.

 

**

   Regardless of inconvenience or frustration, a good horny is proof everything's in working order. Faith ignores the beardy eyeball across the table, easily redirecting her appetite upon endless plates of ham and eggs, potato and cheese casserole; attacking her meal with a vengeance before finally escaping from the house, bloated near to burst. The air is crisp and the sky is clear, sun just peeking from behind clouds. Perfect for a spot of walking off.

   A milk truck's just pulling out of the Kurtz driveway. She returns the driver's wave, remembers Katie explaining the co-op over breakfast: Buying surplus milk for refrigeration, making and selling cheese. Might not be the life for her, but it makes Faith happy, seeing these people survive against ever-increasing odds. Hard enough running a farm without the food police on your tail.

   The more mangled cigarette is a lost cause, but its mate turns up in one piece. She's trying to convince herself that hiding behind the barn for a smoke isn't so much cowardice as tact, wondering how much longer to wait, when a faint ring from her pocket says Mohammed's come to the mountain. Or the other way round.

   "Hey, babe." She takes a seat on the less damaged section of fence. "Catch up with Giles?"

   "I was just starting the caffeination process when he called. But I think I got everything." Willow stifles a tremendous yawn. "How are you?"

   "Healin' up. Got a bath in." _Which I can't wait to tell you about._

   "Oh, good. You'd hate the so-called water pressure at this place." The sound of sip and swallow, followed by a moan of appreciation. "But you'd love the coffee."

   Lack of caffeine can't put too great a damper on her improved mood, but Faith can't help sounding snippy.

   "So. This night terror, or whatever --"

   "Came back last night?"

   "If you'll let me finish my fuckin' sentence." She forces a more amused tone. "Pardon my French."

   "That being one of the languages you know I'm not so good with?" The half-asleep smile comes through perfectly, and Faith stifles her own.

   "So, last night. More like the asscrack of dawn --"

   A giggle interrupts. "Don't. Buffy would kill you."

   Faith's snort nearly becomes something more. "I'll leave it outta my report."

   "What about the un-vanishing powder? How'd that work out?"

   "I was gettin' there." _Deep breath._ "Whatever's messin' with this guy -- we still couldn't see a damn thing. But that stuff made it take off bat outta hell style. And talk about high on the creep scale. Like hearin' something without my ears."

   "Words?"

   "Just screaming. 'Til it went smash out the window."

   "It broke? The window?" Will sounds even more awake. "Still invisible, but corporeal. Just for a second..."

   "Guess so." Big brains can mull things over later. Right now she's got a report to finish. "Color me surprised -- Gramps got put out again. When it looked like I might offer a hand fixin' it up."

   "Sounds feisty." Willow chuckles. "My mom would have a field day. Was he all, _man's work_?"

   Faith considers. "Nah. More like _his_ work."

   Willow changes tack, as expected. "How was he? Like right after?"

   "Came to real quick. Up and about like nothin' happened. And I might just be sunshine and kittens, but -- talk about feisty? Guy's got it up the butt today. Like he's makin' the most of his cranky old man-ness."

   Another chuckle. "You're sounding better yourself."

   "Yeah, well -- silent treatment's gettin' on my tits." She shifts position on the fence. "Think he went up that ladder just so Katie wouldn't be grillin' him."

   "Hmm." The equivalent of _yes, dear_.

   "'Course, the way it was weeble-wobblin' -- glad it was him up there."

   "He's probably the big construction expert." Will trails off. "And you're -- how? Sunshiney?"

   "More impatient." She gives in and lights the cigarette, tries for a smoke ring. Never could do them for diddly. "This ain't no raccoon. And the solution probably ain't gonna be chasin' it off."

   "So...why sunshiney?"

   Faith pretends to consider. "'Cause I'm impatient?"

   "Oh?" Willow definitely sounds pleased. "Then you're in luck."

   "Meaning?"

   "Dana. Still headed straight for you."

   "No shit?" Faith can't help a smile. "Real bloodhound gal."

   "Like she's got her own GPS. I stopped last night to recalculate my own course, but it's still a tossup which one of us will get there first." Willow's pride fades to disquiet. "I just hope she's begging. O-or stealing food, or _something_. I keep thinking I'm gonna find a trail of puppy bones."

   "Suppose it's better'n people."

   "Don't remind me." Willow shudders, changing subjects again. "So. Good bath?"

   "Not long enough."

   "Poor baby." Regular sympathy, not the sexy kind. So much for reading between the lines. "I'm surprised you're not out punching cows."

   "Kinda otherwise occupied." The milk house door opens and Katie steps out; glances over, standing undecided. If she starts walking this way, Faith is going to very casually take one more drag, put her smoke out under her heel, and not radiate one single milliwatt of guilt.

   "Semi-random thoughts? Not everything gets more potent with age -- could be some of your ingredients weren't feeling quite so fresh." Coffee's kicking in on someone's end. Too bad the feeling isn't mutual. "Or a protective magic. Some kind of cloaking spell --"

   "You're the expert." Not quite cold and flat; close enough to trigger the usual reflexive guilt on her part. Which Willow, being Willow, completely ignores.

   "Since nothing materialized -- no candid photos to share?"

   "Tragically, no." Faith manages relaxed without confrontational. "Better off anyway. You'd try showin' me how to send 'em, I'd burn Katie's ears off --"

   The signal futzes, restabilizes. "Still there?"

   "Five by five." Loud and clear, indeed. With a touch of smug.

   "Nice change, havin' batteries last this long." A droll, Giles-ish note enters Faith's tone. "Almost like...magic."

   "I may have provided a little extra juice." Coy becomes wicked. "You could say I'm...sending my love down the line."

   "Whoa." Faith shakes her head, very slowly, back and forth. "And now, it's like...this gigantic wave of cheese just _washed_ over me."

   That earns a giggle. "Don't worry. When Xander gets there, you'll have more Simpsons quotes than you can shake a stake at."

   Katie's heading this way, apparently over the indecision. Can she cut off here, short and sweet? All bases seem covered.

   "See ya soon."

   "You too."

   Faith pockets the phone with a sigh of relief, offering a respectful nod.

   "How's it goin'?"

   "I didn't want to interrupt." Katie leans on the fence, looking unexpectedly tired. "But I feel I must apologize."

   Faith looks down at her half-smoked cigarette. Twiddles her fingers 'til the cherry falls out, then hops off the fence, steps on the glowing ember. Quite the pair they must appear to any observer: Old world; old school.

   "I don't quite know what to think about all this." Katie gazes over the field. "But I feel that you are here to help. You obviously know what you are doing, and --" She struggles for words, looks back.

   "This is your job."

   Very not a question. Faith returns the troubled gaze with aplomb.

   "Yeah."

   "And your friends? Willow...Mister Giles --"

   "One big happy team." Except Katie deserves this much honesty. "In our own weird way...guess you could say we're family."

   A pause of consideration. "And -- you fight."

   "Kinda my specialty."

   Katie absorbs this. "All of you?"

   "Everybody does their own thing." Faith shrugs, overly casual. "Mine just usually involves hittin' things 'til they don't get up."

   She's not sure what she's expecting. Anything but Katie hitting back, below the belt with a zinging non sequitor.

   "Do you have any children?"

   "Nah." Hardly time to expound on all the sort-of. "Nothin' against 'em, just -- not really in the cards."

   Katie seems content with this; abruptly stands, brushing her skirts. "Walk with me?"

   Faith almost wonders at her lack of apprehension, as she follows the other woman along the fenceline. To the west the land rises in a gently sloping hill, succumbing at the top to a scatter of trees, lit by the glitter of morning dew.

   Katie's steps are sure and even, cheeks gaining pink as she takes in the air. Whatever her age, she wears the years well. Must be all that exercise, good food and fresh air; full-bodied, not a roll of fat on her. Add in those boots with the little buckles -- for their own sake, and the resemblance to a certain pair of Willow's own -- and Faith honestly can't decide where to feast her eyes next.

   Until she averts them, with a flare of anger. For a million different reasons.

   _No harm lookin'._ Right.

   Except she's not here to letch. Got a good deal, this new thing she's trying, to be (har) faithful. And even without a gorgeous redhead waiting at home, the roots of this latest obsession are all too apparent. Always wanting what she can't have, and this little country gal is so much all that it goes past _not_ and back to funny.

   All in how you look at things.

   Katie slows as Faith draws even, appraising her with a critical eye.

   "You are doing well."

   "How about your dad?" Faith follows her lead, keeps it casual. "Anything outta the ordinary?"

   "He had been tired, of late, mornings. So --" Katie blows on her hands, rubs them for warmth. "This is better."

   "Just the three of you," Faith hazards. "Must get rough."

   "Not so difficult as you might think." Hands disappear into sleeves as Katie hugs her arms to her chest. Funny how she still doesn't look cold. "The every day, the chores -- any greater, I do not lack for help." She shakes her head. "They were not always so quick when my father was in need."

   "Not the most popular guy in town." Somehow Faith manages to make it not an accusation.

   Katie's chin is high and stubborn, daring her to disagree. "He is a good man."

   Maybe. Or not. Like she's qualified to sit in judgment, and she didn't need anger fricking management to know family always brings out the worst.

   "My life has not been easy. But compared to his --" Again Katie shakes her head. "I don't excuse his rudeness. I only ask you not to judge him."

   "That's not my job." Faith can feel the other woman's eyes, as she does her most meaningful looking off into the distance. "I'm just sayin'...if he wasn't such a good guy. For, whatever reason." Stumbling to lame conclusion; unable to muster courage to witness the effect of her words. "You could tell me."

   She finally risks a quick glance. Katie's still looking straight at her, unblinking.

   "And what do you think I will say? That he raises his hand to me? To my son?" A vigorous headshake nearly dislodges the bonnet, though the older woman's voice is quiet. "I love my father. I trust him with our lives."

   _Must be nice._ Usual shit stirred up, but it won't distract her. Stay frosty.

   Focus.

   "What about his wall of silence? Did he, like -- take some kinda vow?" Faith can't help more sarcasm. "Or was that another accident?"

   Katie swallows. Faith's expecting mad or sad. Maybe both.

   "I remember...when I was very little, sometimes...he would sing." The brief, wistful smile grows solemn.

   "He has not spoken a word since my mother died. The church fathers, they called him selfish. Again the doctors say there is nothing, and so --" A resigned shrug, before that frown turns upside down. "What of your parents?"

   Faith looks back at the woods. Counts ten, and again.

   "I don't talk about them."

   She watches shadows shift as sunlight breaks through the trees. Hearing birds waking in the forest; the echoing slam of a screen door, behind and downhill.

   "The police were here."

   "Really." Faith thinks she might be sounding too flat. Hard to tell, as she calculates how much more suspicion to raise. "When?"

   "Early yesterday. While you were sleeping." For all the lack of emphasis in Katie's voice, they could be discussing the weather over a brisk spot of tea. "There were others with them. They said they were...animal control."

   On a whim, Faith throws caution to the wind. "You didn't tell 'em I was here."

   "Why would I?" Katie sounds completely innocent. "If you were hurt beyond my care, perhaps. If they were looking for a young woman, meeting your description -- to me they said no such thing." She looks directly at Faith. "Would they have arrested you?"

   Faith gives a short nod. Compelled, for whatever reason, to add the qualifier. "Probably."

   Katie nods back. "And yet you say you wish to help. And I believe you. So tell me how to help my father. And if you come to trust me --" A casual shrug. "Say nothing more. If that is your wish."

   All well and good. If you could trust people. Faith stares at the treeline, hackles inexplicably rising as she struggles to keep her voice even.

   "You don't know what I've done."

   Katie doesn't respond. At least not in words, because a hand is finding hers; creeping inside despite the clenched fist. Rough yet tender, comforting grip of countless hours milking and more.

   "It is nice, for a change." Katie sounds casual, friendly and completely forthright. "Having another woman to talk to."

   Anything she could say would be wrong. Instead Faith returns the pressure, taking care not to squeeze too hard.

   When a rustle comes from the edge of the woods. Loud snap that puts her in overdrive. All systems go --

   "Get behind me!"

   "No!" Katie grabs tighter as Faith tries to step in front, between her and the dark figure looming near the treeline. "Don't move --"

   The moment lasts forever and it's over before she can blink. Classic example of the brain processing more than one thing at once. Because it's damn near simultaneous Faith nearly rips herself free; stops short of snapping the pitiful human arm restraining her, even as it becomes clear that a normal person could end up with a broken hand, if this farmer chick used her own full strength. That she mistook caution for blind panic. That the hulking, indistinct shape rubbing up against the tree with muffled grunts of satisfaction is no demon. Or Sasquatch...

   "Just let him go by."

   Katie sounds oddly strained. Faith lets go her hand, forgotten, staring at an actual black frigging bear not fifty feet from where they stand; drool dangling from its muzzle, glinting in the sun. Utterly entranced at the sight of something that big and dangerous she won't have to kill. Hopefully.

   "Damn," she breathes. "First one I seen outside the circus."

   She looks over when Katie doesn't respond, finds the other woman rubbing her fingers.

   For the first time, looking something like afraid.

   "You okay?"

   The bear drops to all fours with a snort of disinterest, lumbering about and waddling into the underbrush, disappearing from view.

   "Yes." Katie is still cradling her hand, apprehensive and more. As if the Slayer is some complex puzzle, demanding to be solved, and suddenly Faith can't be out of this one-horse town one minute too soon.

   Some people don't need to know how deep she goes.

 

**

 

   She doesn't breath easier when they make it back to the house without further incident. Jacob and his grandfather are already repairing the last bit of broken fence, and Faith feels even further out to sea when Katie vanishes inside, leaving her once more twice removed. Two steps forward, back to square one.

   She watches them a while, thumbs in her pockets, debating whether to offer assistance. How hard it can be to hide your own strength? Just because she's never had to doesn't mean she's incapable; give her hornrims and a dress and she will Clark Kent anyone, any time.

   Or maybe she's just loopy for lack of sleep.

   Junior's struggling on his end as they lift up the new beam, and Faith instinctively steps forward to catch hold, on guard against pinched fingers as she helps guide it into place. She's expecting another blowup, but the old man just gives a brief, speculative glance; sizing her up like a prize ox as the kid's smile lights up the countryside. Ice not exactly broken, but spring thaw has definitely arrived.

   From there they fall into a rhythm, Senior's remaining prickliness subdued by her hard work and minimum of dumb questions. Katie delivers glasses of lemonade, disappearing when Faith's about to bite the bullet and say thanks. She shrugs it off, goes straight back to the grind. Not too different from hanging around the garage with the guys. Especially when the heat makes her remove her jacket; Junior's eyes bugging just a touch at tits or tattoo, until his grandfather's glare returns them to the work at hand. Sun's shining, birds are singing, and in broad daylight the house looks anything but haunted.

   They're still hard at work, though with an end well in sight, when a far-off sound captures her attention. Familiar yet not; scant days since last she heard one, and to her ears the internal combustion engine never sounded stranger. Or maybe the vehicle itself: A battered, rusting pickup, meandering up the long drive as though it were on its last wheels. The Jacobs are joining her in staring as it comes round the last bend, pulling to a squeaky halt, and Faith can feel her heart give a stupid little leap as the driver returns her wave.

   The engine dies, one door squeaks open and he clambers out, wincing and rubbing his rear. Faith ambles over, stopping a few feet short of personal space. Still with the eyepatch; casual flannel and leather, boots not quite like her own. And a surprising degree of stubble.

   "How's about we get introductions out of the way before we talk shop?"

   Xander nods, as she casts a suspicious eye on his ride.

   "Hope the lighter works. My phone's about runnin' on fumes."

   To her growing surprise, the trademark witty Harris repartee remains absent throughout said introductions. He's polite without being whatever that word was Willow used that one time -- obsequious, that's it -- as he shows respectful, non-gushy appreciation for the old man's craft, the younger Jacob uncharacteristically quiet despite Xander's attempts to draw him out.

  That uncomfortable duty concluded, the two of them head off alone, to the edge of the forest. Xander breaks radio silence when they're well out of earshot.

   "Nice folks."

   Just when she'd been wondering how long he could keep it up. "Yeah. They're peachy."

   Thankfully, he doesn't move to her as the next topic. Unbidden, she thinks of the last time they were alone together: Wee hours of the morning, shoulder to shoulder in a cramped bathroom, looking through a hole in his head.

   "Thought you were headed straight back to Jolly Old." She doesn't hide the accusation, as she scans for wayward bears. "Giles wouldn't pull you out like that without a reason."

   Xander just shrugs. Faith almost gets pissed that he's looking away, before realizing he's watching their far side, with his

   (_one_)

   good eye.

   Then of course she gets pissed at herself, for holding back. Coddling the handicapped.

   "Cut the crap. He sent you for _her_. Didn't he?"

   A blink of confusion. "Pronoun trouble much?"

   She glares, unwilling to acede. Xander sighs.

   "I was headed back to London for debriefing. Giles said no big rush, and you could use a hand with this poltergeisty thing." His tanned features blanch. "As long as maggots aren't involved. Are there maggots?"

   "Not yet."

   "That's what I've missed about you. Scintillating, yet poignant." He ducks the branch as she lets it go, whizzing just over his head. "Seems like you made at least one new fan."

   A reflexive smirk. "Little dude can't help it. That age, they're starin' straight into the headlights."

   "Sorry, tough chick." Her teeth nearly grind at his gentle amusement. "Trust me -- I know from hero worship. That kind of looking up? Not all about the height difference."

   Faith bites back a thousand glittering retorts. Maybe she can look the other way if Gentle Ben comes sniffing around again.

   "And speaking of? You seriously need to take it easy on this Dana thing."

   "You givin' me advice?" She turns her head to stare him down, bringing a fresh throb from the wound in her side. "Right -- you're the big expert now. All those girls --"

   That's when it clicks, and she stops dead in the path.

   "It's okay." He doesn't sound angry, or sad. Surprised, maybe, that it took her this long.

   "So you lost another."

   Xander finally looks away. Faith pursues, ever relentless.

   "And Giles thinks you aren't dealing."

   "I knew I couldn't save them all. Knew that going in, I --" He takes a deep breath. "I would have stayed."

   "Because naturally, you had no reason to live."

   "Don't laugh. _You_ try sitting through one of Andrew's memorials. For your own irreplaceable comic collection, no less." Xander's smile is ghostly, yet genuine. "No. Giles just looked at me over that crappy satellite feed and...he said it was time for me to get out." He swallows. "Time to come home."

   "Yeah." She contemplates it all. Decides he's worth it. "Wanna hug?"

   He clears his throat, looking not quite embarrassed. "Guess I was wondering if it would be the manly thing."

   "Be the friendly thing." She doesn't need hands on hips, or to push out her chest, to make it a challenge.

   He hesitates, long enough for her heart to skip and then he's moving, taking her in his arms. She returns the embrace, enjoying the familiar scent, the almost-forgotten feel of muscle; mock-groaning when he squeezes a little harder.

   "Careful. Mortal injuries."

   Xander extricates himself, blush increasing as she checks him over.

   "I was gonna say -- lookin' good."

   He falls into step beside her as they resume course. "And by _good_, you of course mean anorexic."

   "You _were_ gettin' a little chunky there, back in the D." A sideways glance; very tastefully un-leery. "Not that the love handles weren't workin' for ya."

   Xander's already back to surveying the property, so her tact and restraint go unnoticed.

   "Just hope you're not plannin' another disappearing act before Will shows up."

   "Absolutely. I mean -- " He flounders a moment before recovering. "No. I am very much in the way of looking forward, to the seeing of Willow."

   Faith allows a crooked smile. "Good. _I'm_ the one that's gotta live with her."

   "Yeah." Xander still sounds unsettled on the concept. "How's that working out?"

   Their path veers from the shade of the treeline, ascending back out of the valley. "For me, or her?"

   "Either." _Trying to be all Mister Cool, Casual Accepting Guy but he just doesn't get it, they never will --_

   _Fuck._ Little pieces of Willow, floating inside; dredged up to the surface now and again. Been a while since one that strong.

   "She misses the hell outta you." _Obvious much?_ "And Giles, even though they're on the phone like, every day. And B --" She has to look away.

   "Buffy misses her, too."

   Faith can't help a good, solid snort.

   "Nobody made her Chosen ass stay in Rome after the European vacation. Whenever she gets tired of fightin' the forces of evil by dating 'em --" A halfhearted, dismissive shrug. "Besides. Will can pop over any time --"

   "That's not the point."

   She glares at the interruption, but he's on a roll.

   "I think, for Buffy -- it was kind of how it was for me. You and Willow."

   Faith's eyebrow twitches at one corner. "Not followin'."

   "When we found out about her and Tara? It was like -- Willow was the same person she'd always been, and she wasn't. And then the surprise wore off, and all we wanted was for things to be like they always were." They've circled round the far side of the farm, opposite her original entrance. "But we all knew...nothing would ever be the same."

   "Yeah, 'cause you're a bunch of drama queens." Even more snortworthy. "Least B kept up the calls after we all went our separate ways. Maybe not like Giles, but they weren't talkin' shop half the time. Not even countin' your big exit -- one crappy note and two emails in almost a year? _I'd_ be thinkin' I'm off someone's Christmas list."

   Xander remains silent. Faith concentrates on not growling.

   "Look, I'm not holding her hostage --" Xander's eyebrow rises, and she nearly groans. "Okay. Bad phrasing."

   "Granted."

   "Point is -- I ain't lockin' the chick in a tower. Like I could make her do anything she didn't want --"

   (_good idea_)

   (_know you want to_)

   "-- and it's not like your fingers are broke and you can't pick up a goddamn phone, or -- " She breaks off, hearing her words carrying over the field.

   Xander stares toward the house, his face illuminated in the setting sun.

   "The very first day I met Buffy...before the night was over, one of my two best friends -- my _only_ friends -- was a literal dead man walking. And the other had come close enough to get a whiff of Death's stinky armpits. All because they decided to get busy seizing the day."

   "And you figured that's what I was?" Somehow, Faith sounds calm. "Take a walk on the wild side?"

   "You tell me." He shrugs, meeting her gaze.

   "All I know is...after Tara died, after Willow came back from England, she was...less long-term planny gal. More living in the moment. But if she's not treating you like that -- if you really make her happy?" The barest smile graces his lips. "Then I say, let the wild rumpus start."

   "Could use some action." She gives her knuckles a good crack to forestall one of his own.

   Xander's eyebrow rises again, looking more concerned.

   "As long as you guys _are_ okay?"

   "Five by." Faith shrugs it off. "Just need something to fight, is all."

   "You sure? I'm no priest -- thank God -- but your secrets are safe with me."

   "Yeah, right. You'll be spillin' to your Slayer brigade while you sit around braiding each other's hair." Another shrug, as she looks away. "I dunno. Feels like I'm...not spinnin' my wheels. Maybe -- coastin' on my laurels?"

   "It's okay. You never were much for metaphor."

   She gives him a lewd grin. "Never met a for I didn't like."

   Xander winces, offering Bartender Sympathetic Look. "You're bored out of your skull here, aren't you?"

   "God, yes."

   Xander chuckles as he clambers over the gate. "Not exactly the civilized life."

   "Burgers and Cheetos -- all the civilization I need." Faith ignores his proffered hand, hopping over the fence and squinting at the house, eyes adjusting to glare and shadow. "Gotta admit, though. Folks like them got way better odds on that whole ripe-old-age deal."

   Xander shakes his head, joining her in observation.

   "First rule of life. Any one of us can go. Any time."

   She refuses to follow him where that one leads. "That why you're still on the patch?"

   "Oh." He blinks. "Actually -- I got the glass."

   "Seriously?" He nods, and she folds her arms. "Show me."

   "It's not in right now. Took it out before the flight." His shoulders contract in a shiver, despite the warm evening air. "I still get headaches."

   "Shit, I know I would."

   "They kept saying it would heal better with an implant. And I'm sitting there thinking, I've never been able to handle the idea of contacts and you're telling me to shove something in my eye? The one that isn't even _there_ anymore?"

   Faith remains silent.

   "But they said it wouldn't need constant cleaning, and eventually, they wore me down. Or rather, the cute nurses wore me down." He actually looks embarrassed. "Well. They _would_ have worn me down, but I...took a rain check."

   "So you're a monk," Faith shrugs. "Least you're not Angel."

   "You always did know how to brighten my day."

   "So. What's with the eye?"

   "Probably psychological. I'm sure I can blame it on my parents."

   That shouldn't make her smile. She's glad it does.

   "Blend in better without the pirate gear."

   "Talking to the man with the amazing technicolor passport." A rueful shake of his head. "Not to mention -- depth perception still an issue. We should have swung a little more Council pork and boondoggle. I could have walked away with some sweet bionics."

   "Yeah, but you gotta think long-term maintenance. Six million dollar man -- sixty trillion dollar old dude, scroungin' for parts."

   "Hot, practical _and_ secretly nerdly. Knew I shouldn't have let you get away." They watch as a lamp flickers to life in an upstairs window.

   "So yeah, I stand out in a crowd. And an unfortunate number of people think I'm trying to be a badass, but that's _so_ not the point. It's just..." Xander exhales, fingers running through rumpled hair.

   "I don't want to forget what's real. And even when I'm not looking in a mirror, it feels like a lie."

   "The fake eye?" Faith clarifies. "Well -- duh."

   He chuckles. "We're pretty screwed up, huh?"

   "Speak for yourself." Gruff affection covered, she quickly moves to change subjects. "What else you been learnin' out there in the bush? Eighteen ways to distill water with an antelope?"

   "Just call me Xander MacGuyver." A grim note under the humor. "I've been known to bake a mean birthday cake."

   Her ears prick at the slam of a door. "Got any other field training?"

   Xander looks confused, yet alert. "What kind?"

   Faith stares grimly at the figure rushing toward them.

   "Medical."

 

**

 

   She is so not equipped to deal with this.

   Nor never, in a million years, would want to. Faith knows what she's built for, and it's not the comforting of widows and orphans: The Slayer's power is to slash and burn; guided by the demon within, calling out to its lost kindred.

   Forever striving to become whole.

   She's right behind as they enter the room. Xander crouches by the fallen elder, taking one thin wrist in his grasp. Young Jacob sits beside, trying not to look scared, clutching the old man's free hand.

   "He's breathing." Xander sounds insistent but calm, rock solid. "Pulse is strong -- little fast. What happ--"

   "You must call the hospital!" Katie sounds as frantic now as when she first found them.

   Faith glares, willing the other woman to stop clutching her skirts, or knock off the nervous hovering.

   "Already told you -- my battery's _dead_. And if you don't want your dad to end up the same, you're gonna quit tellin' me what I 'must' do --"

   "Faith!"

   She's about to snap back, only stops at the look on Xander's face.

   "He fell." The boy's voice is barely audible. "I just wanted --"

   "Jacob!" Katie steps forward, taking him by the shoulders. "Go to your room."

   "But --"

   "Your mom's got a point." Faith dismisses them with a clipped nod. "Nothin' you can do right now."

   Jacob looks as though she's just stabbed him in the gut: Classic progression, from hurt to anger. Or what passes for it on one who hasn't learned the true taste of hate. She's thinking this is going to be where he makes his stand, the final straw that awakens the dormant genetic stubbornness. Instead he gives that frail hand a squeeze before standing, making as dignified an exit as possible while avoiding her gaze.

   Xander's checking the old man's pupils, apparently satisfied.

   "He seems okay, but we probably don't want to move him. If his back's hurt, we could make it worse." Katie chews on her lower lip, arms wrapped round herself like she's about to collapse inward, and Xander rises with an awkward look. "I'll, uh...check on your son."

   Faith can barely discern their voices through the door, out in the hall, as Xander provides manly reassurance. She doesn't pay attention to the words; watches Katie grab a cloth from the dresser, soak it in the basin before kneeling by her father, holding it to his brow.

   Drawing blanks on what to say, she settles for nothing.

   It only seems like forever until Xander returns and shuts the door, moving with hardly a squeak of the floorboards.

   "Shouldn't take long to get enough of a charge." A glimpse of the Xander of old, finding humor in any situation. "As long as your minutes are paid up --"

   "No."

   Xander's gaze turns wary. "You got the unlimited plan?"

   "Sun just went down." She's trying not to start pacing, lash out at the first thing or person that gets close; ignoring the nervous itch in her fingertips, racing thoughts that collide like suicidal NASCAR drivers. "Bad things come out at night."

   "And you think this is mystical?" Xander's tone is one of subdued skepticism.

   Faith waits for the expected outburst. Katie continues to ignore them.

   "Just sayin'."

   "And all I'm saying is -- sometimes, this stuff just happens. When Buffy's mom --"

   "I know!" Faith wants to punch him, throw up her hands and stalk out of the room. She closes her eyes, slows her breathing; trying to tune out anything that might distract her from sensing whatever it is that has a hold on this guy.

   Too goddamn wired. Can't concentrate to save her life, let alone someone else's.

   Except he's not dead. Just...

   _Sleeping._ Faith stares down at the craggy map of skin, obscured by waves of white hair.

   She looks around, at wit's end, ready to grab and smash. Not much within reach. Just a big ceramic bowl, atop the --

   Katie's up in an instant, standing between her and the dresser. "What are you doing?"

   "My job." Faith inclines her head. "You wanna tell me what's in there?"

   Katie blinks, posture further straightened.

   "My father's business."

   Not many people can take the pressure, when Faith is the one putting it on. Even if this chick were one of them, now's not the time to find out.

   "Katie -- whatever this thing is, it's all about sleep. Dreams." Faith looks her in the eye. "Nightmares."

   From the quick swallow, the way Katie's shoulders crumble and lose their determined stance, paydirt has been struck. Doesn't make it any easier.

   "You gonna let me do my job?"

   She steps forward when no answer is forthcoming; pulls the drawer open in one smooth motion, half expecting a snake, real or rubber. Feeling the other woman's eyes drilling into her back, shuffling through scattered papers, fingers coming to rest on a worn leather case...

   Xander inhales sharply as she opens the lid. Faith turns her head to find the mother of all storms in that eye.

   "What?" She looks back, confused. "It's just --"

   "Silver Star." Xander's fingers reach out, brushing over fading ribbon and metal. "Awarded for gallantry in action."

   A flood of thoughts kick off and take flight. "Thought these guys were all about turnin' the other cheek."

   "Not so fun fact? Almost eight hundred Amish were drafted in the second world war."

   That throws her more, before she remembers Xander's own specialty. "Military memories?"

   A short nod. "Most declared themselves conscientous objectors -- but a handful enlisted in regular army service." He looks over at Katie, seated once more on the floor by her father. "I'm guessing they didn't exactly come home to a hero's welcome."

   The flicker of certainty in Faith's gut isn't stopping. More like growing to a cold flame, as it comes together; from proud shoulders to watchful eyes that never missed a single detail. Plus the major league haunting inside.

   "So that's what --" Faith hates the weakness in her own voice. "No wonder he doesn't wanna open up and share."

   Xander's grim expression confirms it. "War is hell."

 

**

 

   Jacob Kurtz knows better than to complain if things don't seem fair. Even if it did any good -- and it never does -- that kind of talk is more trouble than it's worth when it falls inevitably on his mother's ears. Better to remain silent.

   To act.

   The adults are still arguing down the hall as he shuts the door. If he can open his window quietly, make it to the ground with unbroken limbs, he can run to the neighbors before anyone knows he's gone. If only no more of those things are roaming the woods...

   His heart leaps at the soft rustle, throbs in his throat like a beesting.

   "Who's there?"

   Impossible to sound brave. Like the warrior girl.

   "_You...would know his secrets?_"

   From out of the corner it shambles, clad in muddy rags.

   Jacob's stomach heaves as moonlight from the window shines full upon the impossible. How the man walks upright he cannot say, with one leg rotting away beneath; that enormous, ragged hole in his skull, through which his brains push and squirm like newborn piglets.

   "Your _opa_ did this."

   His heart hammers inside his chest, yet Jacob feels frozen in place: Unable to voice heartfelt denial, to move or even breathe, as the hideous apparition shuffles closer.

   "I was alone...starving...half mad with fear. I only wanted to see my family again..."

   A dripping hand reaches out in supplication. It is the stench of the swamp Jacob fell in when he was three; lungs filled with stagnant slime, foul taste that lingered on his tongue for weeks.

   "In the dark, I heard a noise. I thought I recognized him. I called out to him. And he raised his gun..."

   Jacob's eyes bulge at the gaping wound, mere inches away. Something cries out inside him to resist, to fight back against this thing that torments them. But the voice is so sad and calm; familiar, clipped accent so like his own.

   "You would know...all he saw?"

   _Blinding light; explosions that cannot drown out the horrible sounds. Men with no legs try to crawl, tears streaming from burnt-out sockets; choke on clouds of yellow, vomit up what guts are left inside... _

   The wooden floor is cold beneath his feet. No mud between his toes; no screams of men, no smell of death. Jacob knows some part of this is not real, and yet he cannot look away.

   Why fight, when this is where it leads?

   If only he could scream.

 

**


	5. frogfarm: Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x01: "Big Country" (conclusion)

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**Current mood:** | bam!  
---|---  
**Entry tags:** |   
[fanfic](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/tag/fanfic), [ftvs](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/tag/ftvs)  
  
  
_ **Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x01: "Big Country" (conclusion)** _

Just like Honey Moon Shine: "Almost perfect -- but not quite." But when publishing pulp, the perfect is the enemy of the good.

Already working on the next episode. Which -- G-d willing -- won't take near as long.

As always, you know the drill.

Share, and enjoy.

 

**Faith the Vampire Slayer**

 

1x01: "Big Country"

 

Conclusion

 

([teaser](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/58356.html))  
([Act 1](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/58532.html#cutid1))  
([Act 2](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/61194.html#cutid1))  
([Act 3](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/71411.html#cutid1))

 

   "Xander."

   Katie's gut prickles at the stark edge of command in Faith's voice. Wholly unnecessary, from the look on the face of the Slayer's friend.

   "Grab my phone outta your car. Few minutes of juice is all we need."

   He nods, hurrying out. His feet on the stairs are somehow muted, as though her ears were filled with cotton.

   Katie watches the rise and fall of her father's chest. Waiting for the sound of the kitchen door, with less than no idea what to say...

   "I won't tell him."

   Her overwhelming relief is dispelled, as Faith overrides any potential gratitude.

   "But something like this -- can't hide it forever. Longer you do -- just make it worse."

   She looks away, unable to meet those dark eyes. Faith hesitates, obviously weighing tactics against motherly concern.

   "You wanna check on him?" The Slayer's voice is gruff but gentle as she takes the cloth from Katie's limp fingers. "Go ahead. I'll keep an eye on your dad."

   She does not trust herself to reply. Instead, she slips out of the room before Faith can change her mind.

   Outside the room she leans against the wall, eyes shut, head aspin. The events of these past few days have come so fast and furious one can scarce put two thoughts together. Never has she wished for a life of excitement, anything but the familiar, and yet this _English_, brash and outspoken, has awakened something previously unknown. Katie is not a stupid girl; can hardly be faulted for seeing what is plain as day, the love this woman has for another. And if some small, selfish part of her perhaps encouraged these attentions

   (_unnatural_)

   then it is only damned curiosity, and years of loneliness.

   The pain of seeing such love, that from her was taken.

   She opens her eyes. Forces herself into motion.

   Her duty is to the living.

   The door to her son's room is closed. She hesitates before knocking.

   "Jacob?"

   Oppressive silence swallows the sound of his name.

   Her heart lurches, regains its rhythm. In her head she can hear her own voice, giving herself a stern talking-to.

   Telling the frightened girl there is nothing to be afraid of.

   Shadows dance on the walls, flickering in the light of her lamp, and suddenly all words, all thoughts have fled before blind, unreasoning terror. She throws open the door, nearly drops the lamp at the sight of Jacob, unmoving in its light.

   His name on her lips as she rushes forward, taking him in a frantic embrace, surge of hope rising at the breath still strong in him; withering at the stiffness of his limbs, the wide eyes staring at unseen horrors. She can only hold him, rocking back and forth, whispering meaningless reassurance. Torn between what on earth to do --

   "_Katia..._"

   The air grows thick and cold. And she is likewise frozen.

   Cannot look away from the shadow, taking shape before her eyes.

   "_My love..._"

   How many nights did she pray to hear that voice again? Yet she holds tighter her precious boy, fear growing at his lack of response. Still the shadow lacks true substance, its features nonetheless unmistakable; in every detail, the image of the man she loved.

   "You are _not_ \--"

   "_The doctors...they only did not reach me in time. When I fell._" His quiet pronouncement carries no accusation. Only infinite sorrow. "_They could have saved me._"

   "Lies!" She clutches her son's unresisting form, chorus and litany clamoring behind her inadequate tongue. _I cast you out, in God's name --_

   "_You must stop her._" The spectral tone loses its affection, taking on grim finality. "_She will kill them._"

   Truth or lie, she is not strong enough to face this. Katie buries her face in her son's shoulder.

   Trying to hide from this nightmare made flesh.

   "_Your father..._"

   _o my god i am truly sorry_

   "_Our son._"

 

**

 

   There are some things Faith isn't big on, never will be. Long before Mom and a string of boyfriends taught her the value of keeping one eye open -- before months in a coma left her fearful of closing those eyes ever again -- this little Slayer has never been less comfortable when at a standstill. Likewise, not into watching others sleep; doesn't spend hours, even minutes, gazing adoringly at her girlfriend in the night. Awake-Willow is the perfect mix of innocent and world-weary, but sometimes when she's out and snoring it's a little too perfect.

   Too much to live up to.

   At least this time she's not competing with an immortal ex. Or two.

   _Just the greatest love of all._ She stares down at old Jacob's face, almost peaceful in repose. Old bastard probably never left his wife's bedside the whole time she was slipping away.

   Kind of life Will and Tara should have had. Real home, not endless takeout and a string of less-sleazy motels. American Goth, not some warmed-over Kung Fu crap.

   What the hell was she thinking?

   Slayer hearing catches the sound of Katie's voice, one room over. Rising in volume. And fear --

   Downstairs the door bangs, Xander's boots heavy on wood floor. Already Faith is out and running down the hall, hearing his steps quicken on the stairs behind.

   She hits the door to the kid's room full speed, barely avoiding head-on collision. Katie kneels in the middle of the floor, holding her son; incoherent whispers escaping in between tiny, sobbing breaths.

   "Hey!" No visible threat. Faith grabs her by the shoulder, then stops at the sight of young Jacob, faint and shallow breath his only sign of life.

   "C'mon..." Slayer strength easily lifts the other woman to her feet. Xander is already at their side, helping guide Katie to sit on the bed.

   "We can beat this." Easier if her voice wasn't threatening to crack at the sight of the boy, unmoving in his mother's arms. Faith hesitates, then covers Katie's hand with her own.

   "Just need you to keep it together. And we can beat this --"

   "_Now, Faith._"

   Her grip nearly clamps down; stops short of snapping bone. Except it isn't just her. And the confusion on Katie's face, Xander's recognition and undisguised loathing, gives her the strength to turn and face --

   -- exactly who it sounds like.

   "_You know, there's not a living soul who admires your dedication and perseverance more than I._" The twinkle in those phantom eyes takes on an air of tragedy as the spirit folds both hands behind its back, still visible as Faith stares through from the front.

   "_But that loyalty comes with a hefty pricetag. See -- you've never learned when to give up. And I don't blame you, that is a darn bitter pill for any young woman -- or man -- to have to swallow._"

   "Faith?" Katie's voice is still trembling. "Who --"

   "_Oh, I'm sorry -- how terribly rude._" The figure offers a courtly, old-fashioned bow.

   "_My name is Richard Wilkins. And this charming young lady, well -- she used to kill people for me._"

   Katie swallows, doesn't respond. But it's Xander who has Faith's full attention now, and his silence speaks volumes.

   He's waiting for her.

   "Nice trick." The attempt at bravado rings hollow as she stands, takes a single step. "Now lemme show you mine."

   "_Faith, be reasonable._" Ghostly features twist, into the look she always hated seeing most on that silly mug. _Disappointment._

   "_You can't help anyone. Least of all yourself._" It shakes its head, a parody of grief. "_Even when you're not trying at all..._"

   Its form blurs and shrinks in the dim light.

   "_You still hurt people._"

   She can hear Xander behind, drawing a pained breath. And a roaring in her ears, building to a quiet fury Faith can hardly recognize; something bending, threatening to shatter inside her.

   "No." The apparition opens its mouth and Faith cuts it off at the knees, rides right over this beautiful outrage. "You don't get to wear that face either."

   Her knees no longer tremble as she advances, each step slow and painful. Daring it to look away. _Say one more word..._

   "'Cause I've been lied to by the best."

   She stops just short of passing through. Right up in that sweet face, hair the color of honey and sunlight, dressed prim and proper to rival Katie and Christ this wouldn't hurt any less if she'd never left her cell. Never shared a brain with one of the world's biggest, who wound up in her damn heart.

   "And you..." Her voice drops to a guttural snarl. Whoever would steal that face? Demon, or human?

   Murder's too good.

   "You don't measure up."

   Tara shrugs. Smiles, and cocks her head just so.

   Then disappears without a sound.

   Jacob twitches, letting out a feeble moan. Everyone else stops, holding a collective breath.

   Faith stands there, one fist clenched, staring at the empty air. Realizes she's grinding her teeth.

   Xander's lone eye catches hers as she looks back. He mouths a single, silent syllable: _First?_

   She shakes her head.

   "Amateur hour. Whatever it is -- now it's gotta deal with the pros from Dover."

   Xander salutes with his free hand. "Aye aye, cap'n."

   "Katie." Faith has to fight down another growl when the other woman won't meet her gaze. With two down -- maybe out -- it's feet to the flame. Pressure's on. "Did you see someone?"

   Katie grows smaller, pulls in on herself like a turtle, wrapping Jacob tighter in her arms.

   "Someone you knew?" Faith persists. Not many tactful ways to put it. "Someone --"

   "Someone dead." Xander glares up, one protective arm around her target's shoulders.

   If he actually tells her to back off, this will end far from well. Faith keeps her wounded pride on a leash, watching silently as the other woman struggles to name her pain.

   "Daniel." Katie's voice is drained and hollow. More than enough to put two together.

   "Your husband."

   Katie gives a weary nod. Faith pushes forward with renewed confidence.

   "And if it was really him -- you think he'd be tryin' to scare you? Make you give up?" She drops to an appropriate register of command. "Or would he try to help?"

   "He said --" Katie stares back, her son's limp body seemingly forgotten in her arms. "He said you would kill them."

   "Believe what you want." Faith maintains her gaze. Fighting to stay calm, ready for God knows what.

   "Um -- Faith?"

   "What --" The irritation of interruption vanishes as she takes in the odd pearlescence suffusing the room with a subtle glow. Xander gingerly holds up her phone between two fingers.

   "Is it supposed to --"

   "Gimme that." She snatches it away, hits TALK with an abruptly trembly finger. Hoping against hope for a miracle...

   "Hello?"

   "_Yes!_" Willow's triumph echoes loud enough to make the others wince, Faith pull the phone away from her ear.

   "Yo, tone it down!"

   "_Sorry -- how's this?_"

   "Better." She addresses the others. "You guys -- back to the other bedroom. No more gettin' separated, we stick together 'til sunrise. Got it?"

   Xander gives a quick nod. Faith doesn't wait to see them follow as she doubletimes it down the hall.

   "_I'm pushing your battery past the specs,_" Willow interjects. "_Don't know how much time we've got, so --_"

   "Make every minute count."

   "_Yahtzee._" Will sounds distracted now, laser-focused in umpteen directions. "_I had Giles on the other line, but something went flaky. Hold on a sec..._"

   "Holdin'." Faith does a visual sweep as she enters the master bedroom. Old Jacob still present and accounted for, still out like a light, his chest barely moving with each shallow breath.

   "_\--es, I said the bloody Himalayas!_" A new voice erupts from her phone; male, British, and pissed in the American sense. "_If you had any conception of how much harm could result from just -- yanking someone out of an astral state, with no --_"

   "_Giles, settle down! What's going on? Whose astral?_"

   "_Oh Willow, thank God._" The senior Watcher sounds immediately improved, if still incredibly put upon. "_Terribly sorry. This wretched phone --_"

   "_A poor craftsman blames his tools --_"

   "Yo!" Faith's interjection is more vehement. "I got two people unconscious here. Need you guys on the same page."

   "_Yes -- quite right._" Giles clears his throat. "_We may have found your demon -- _"

   "Right on --"

   "_ \-- or at least identified it. Willow?_"

   "_I'm thinking Alp. And not the fun Swiss Miss kind._" Keys clatter in the background, the sound of Willow's laptop being put through its paces. "_Old German folklore says that nightmares -- Alpdrucke -- were caused by these beings who pressed down on sleeping people so they couldn't make a sound. Basically the whole life-force-sucking lifestyle most demons are so well known for._"

   "Great." Faith motions to Xander as he enters. He nods, leading Katie over to lay Jacob beside his grandfather. "And I kill it how?"

   "_You have to bring it fully into this plane of existence. Normally, it's out of phase with our dimension --_"

   "Figures."

   "_ \-- but the dust was supposed to take care of that in one shot. Make it solid, then make it go poof._"

   "All outta dust. And I need to take this thing out, fast." Faith doesn't bother with extra sugar-coated caution. "Think it's gettin' stronger."

   "_Stronger how?_" Willow sounds more alert.

   "Like we don't have to be asleep to see it. Or whoever it's usin' for a costume." So not going there. "Like the more people it gets hold of --"

   "_Right._" Faith nearly bites her tongue at the interruption, but Willow's already moved on. "_The Alp isn't real high on the food chain. But it's not stupid. More victims gives it more power. But it can only maintain full control for so long, before --_"

   She breaks off. Faith can hear between the lines: _Before they die._

   Probably screaming.

   "Just gimme a way to get my hands on it." She can feel her heart in her chest, racing against an invisible watchman. "C'mon, guys. There's always somethin' --"

   "_From what you described --_" Giles' speech is harried, halting, punctuated by his distinctive hunt and peck. "_We believe this entity has got hold of a bulletproof vest, so to speak. An idea not without precedent -- Willow, stop that!_"

   "_I'm not controlling your desktop._" The witch's patient tone is already showing signs of indignance. "_It's just a second mouse cursor. It's not magic --_"

   "_I am perfectly capable --_"

   "_No, and that's why we had this discussion. Because you admitted that you needed my help. Control-K to search? Reminding for the millionth time? It's like, two keys!_"

   "_It's just -- they're surrounded by so many others._"

   "_Yes. Esoteric hieroglyphs all, from A to zed. Some of which you may be familiar with from a quaint device we refer to as a typewriter --_"

   "_I've got it!_" Giles sounds triumphant, and more than somewhat relieved.

   Faith can't help a smile. "Sure you're not just sayin' that?"

   Willow is appropriately suspicious. "_What's that supposed to --_"

   "_The old writings,_" Giles hastily interjects, "_make reference to a 'Tarn-cloak':_

     Of wild dwarfs I oft have heard men declare  
     They dwell In hollow mountains; and for defence they wear  
     A thing called a Tarn-cloke, of wonderful nature--  
     Who has It on his body will ever be secure  
     'Gainst cutting and 'gainst thrusting."

   Again the obvious suggests itself to Faith. "So I should aim for the head."

   "_If possible._" The dry tone leaves no doubt that Giles approves.

   Faith frowns, sniffing the air.

   "Hey, is it just me or --"

   She breaks off, drops the phone with a yell, shaking her hand.

 

   Across the ocean, Giles likewise nurses singed fingers, staring at a smoking hole in his beloved parquet floor.

   "Good Lord..."

 

   As a spellcaster of experience, both good and bad, Willow is supposed to know when things have gone too far. In this case she was so engaged in her conversation that she missed the warning signs, only cutting the flow of power at the last second before her own phone was similarly reduced to a heap of slag. The minor sense of triumph vanishes at the realization that she's now cut off from anything short of direct telepathy.

   She slaps the laptop shut, reflexively checks the mirror before peeling out of the rest stop parking lot, in complete defiance of years of gruesome driver's training films. Her purpose hadn't been frivolous. And she'd invaded noone's privacy; couldn't help but feel the urgency, miles away. If she listens too close she can still hear everything, everyone connected.

   She's just more connected with Faith.

   For now.

   She puts the hammer down. Banishes negative thoughts.

   Let's see how this thing likes a real witch.

 

**

 

   The curse dies on her lips at the smell of molten plastic and burnt wood. Faith stamps out the flames, cringing for the first time in years at the thought of property damage.

   Xander looks ready to toss a blanket, but the fire has already succumbed to her boots. He blinks at the freshly made crater.

   "Pardon my French, but -- " Xander throws a sideways glance at Katie, who's staring in shock at the hole in her floor. "What the _hell_ was that?"

   "What?" Faith bristles at the unsubtle accusation. "You think Red's workin' the dark mojo again?"

   Beside him, Katie shivers, clutches her son tighter to her chest.

   Xander doesn't blink. "You tell me."

   "No." Faith's tone brooks no discussion. "'Cause you're not changin' the subject, and you're not makin' this about her. Not now."

   "Not ever?" But he isn't smiling. She can feel that old, familiar rage well up at his odd indifference.

   Xander shrugs, holds up both hands.

   "No -- you're right." He gives Katie an uncomfortable pat on the shoulder, like he's just realized it might not be appropriate. "We've got bigger fish to fry."

   "_Oh, please._"

   Xander jerks upright, as if from a red-hot poker.

   "_You're as bad as that psychotic slut of a Slayer._"

   Faith doesn't deign to respond. Instead she watches Xander, staring at this latest apparition: Dishwater blonde, thin as a rail and wrapped in a tight, clingy sundress.

   "Don't --" His mouth works silently, finally forcing the words out. "Don't listen."

   "_Well, you were certainly good at that._" The blonde rolls her eyes. "_And helping yourself. Something at which you are both the master._" A petulant note creeps into the ethereal voice. "_Baiter._"

   One corner of Xander's eye twitches, beneath the patch.

   "_You left me at the altar, Harris. And then --_" It turns a mournful gaze on Katie. "_He left me for dead._"

   "That's a lie." Xander's anger is subdued but visible, under brittle layers of grief. "And so are you."

   "_Oh?_" The spirit ignores him, addressing a stunned Katie. "_And in the final battle, whose bright idea was it to pair me with a single pasty, underfed nerd incapable of even defending his own frozen foods?_" Its tone grows bitter, more strident. "_And you went along with it! 'Great plan, everyone! Xander on board, pip-pip!'_"

   "Sounds like someone's gettin' nervous." Faith doesn't fold her arms, or straighten her shoulders. Just stands there, hands loose at her sides.

   "_Oh -- it's you._" The spirit doesn't even glance her way. "_I suppose I ought to thank you. Sex with Xander would have been much less satisfying if he hadn't been perpetually compensating for all that trauma he experienced at your hands._"

   _Cute,_ Faith thinks. To his credit, Xander doesn't flinch.

   "Don't embarrass yourself." His voice is almost gentle. "This isn't even pathetic. It's --"

   "_Not what you want._" Another wicked smile. "_Either of you..._"

   Ghostly features flicker, and already Faith's bracing herself for the worst. Mom; Diana. Except thin and blonde are merely transposing, growing thinner, blonder and Faith _knows_ the lie, with every atom: No solid presence, the scent of lilac and ginger, no comforting warmth deep down inside that of all the Slayers she's ever met only this one can make her feel. But her knowledge of Willow's dead girlfriend comes secondhand. And much as that hurt -- fresh wound, old regret -- it's nothing compared to once more seeing the face of her very own angel.

   "_Katie, right?_" Transparent cheeks dimple, oozing faux concern. "_I realize we just met, but -- you really should take that guy's advice. You know, the one who was just here? The one not your dearly departed?_"

   "Leave her out of this," Xander practically spits.

   "_I mean, it's true -- he was evil. A big, stupid, evil jerk. But ask yourself --_" The spirit looks over its gauzy shoulder, straight at Faith. "_When was the last time he was wrong?_"

   "Goin' for my weak spot?" Faith's easy drawl surprises even her, sweaty palms notwithstanding. "Better watch out, Xan. Got ourselves a bonafide evil genius here."

   "_Oh, Faithy. Don't be so hard on yourself._" Mockery slithers under her skin, a living needle of ice, as the pretender tosses translucent, golden locks in that patented flounce. "_Compared to you, I'm downright special ed._"

   Faith doesn't move a muscle. "How you figure?"

   "_Just look at me!_" A coquettish pout. "_Wasting away in the cradle of civilization...still feeling the weight of the world, after all these years? All the nightclubs and shopping malls on the continent, and they just can't fill that hole in my soul._" One clenched fist, raised to chest level, completes the emo picture.

   "_But you...no real responsibilities...every night skanking it up with yet another stolen best friend..._" Its gaze slides over to a silent Xander, and it clucks a nonexistent tongue. "_Well. It's gotta be so much worse for --_"

   "You done?"

   Outside, the wind is picking up; for a moment the only sounds the tick of the clock on the wall, the breathy, combined rasp of the sleeping Jacobs. The apparition's features twist in momentary anger before that serene, sardonic smile returns full force.

   "_Honey? I'm just getting started._"

   That's where Faith almost falters. But the tough act feels like just that. And this actor?

   Not the world's best.

   "Tell me somethin' I don't know." Faith doesn't wait for a reply. "Except you can't, can ya? Cause you don't know the real B, any more'n we do --"

   "Beg to differ." Xander looks mildly wounded. Faith rolls her eyes.

   "Little thing called dramatic license. Work with me, here."

   He bows his head in acknowledgement.

   "See, our friend here is all about the drama. But in the end, that's all it is." She pauses for effect. "And I still think we're makin' you nervous."

   "_How you figure?_" The spirit raises one perfectly plucked eyebrow, parroting her own words and attitude. Even a little accent, with all the painful mispronunciation she'd expect from the real thing.

   "You been hangin' out here a while." Faith shrugs. Like only an idiot wouldn't know that. "Got it pretty easy. Farm full of sheep that don't fight back."

   'Buffy' narrows her beady little eyes, as if to say, _I can so take you._ Faith isn't fazed, though she ignores the hurt look on Katie's face.

   "But you know the old guy's not gonna be around forever. So you work on the kids -- plan for the future. And here's the fun part: You coulda come after me any time, but instead, you dicked around. Playin' your little games." Contempt rolls off her lips, so much lazy venom. "Thought these folks would fold like a buncha chumps."

   The spirit isn't smirking any more.

   "Now you're backed into a corner." Faith cracks a merciless grin. "Runnin' outta tricks, so you decide -- gotta take out the big dog. Then the rest of 'em -- they'll fall right back in line."

   She stares down at the old man, still trapped in slumber. Reaches out, taking one fragile, aging hand in her own.

   "Come on, dude."

   Is this the closest she's come in years, to real prayer?

   "Don't believe the hype."

   "_Wasted breath._" All pretense of civility has fled. Buffy's spectral voice seethes with undisguised hate. "_He's mine._"

   Jacob's eyes don't open. But Faith feels the punch of surprise, a jolt of hope at the surge of strength in his reflexive returning grip.

   _Fight!_

 

**

 

   He can see and hear it all, everything taking place in this room he knows so well; feel the strength of his mother's arms around him, trembling with fear. Yet he remains paralyzed, sight and sound and smell searing into his mind. _Men scramble through half-frozen slush, trip over severed limbs..._

   Ahead the forest looms, forbidding and dark. If he can just make it to the trees, he can lose himself in its depths, and then...

   Jacob is less than sure about what will happen then. Hell, right now he can barely remember his own name; and then the world _flexes_, twists and wobbles and contracts to a point of pain between his ears, bringing fresh the desire to empty the meager contents of his stomach on crimson snow.

   He reels, swaying back and forth, fighting the urge to fall to his knees. And then he sees himself.

   Or himself as an old man: Hunched and bent, wracked with fear. Unable to move --

   The world trifurcates.

   Certainly, it's not a real word

   (_real world_)

   But that's exactly how it feels.

   _Inside the house where he was born. Safe and warm, in his mother's arms --_

   _Trapped. A bodiless spectator on this remote and windswept battlefield --_

   _Unable to look at the son of his son. Overwhelmed by misery. And shame --_

   Their eyes meet.

   And Jacob sees the terror drain from his grandfather's craggy features. Watches him rise and stand, head held high, despair fleeing before grim defiance.

   _Not real --_

 

**

 

   While Xander's report on the Kurtz manifestation was a model of clarity, submitted as it was weeks after the events themselves actually took place, the unfolding of said events was more akin to the sort of Great Unraveling that normally could be accomplished only by a horde of lion cubs given copious quantities of controlled substances and set loose in a yarn factory.

   At the time, those events went something like this:

 

**

 

   The Alp -- for so it was, though years had passed since it had been last known by that name -- did not pass easily into the realm of wakefulness. Dragged it was, kicking and screaming, weakened by resistance of a kind it had forgotten existed, stretched thinner than smoke in its desperate bid for dominance.

   Because Jacob knows, now, the things his _opa_ never wanted him to see. And it doesn't matter. These are memories only: _He was never here._

   And they both know it.

 

**

 

   _Hope for the best._

   _Prepare for the worst._

   What Faith isn't prepared for -- though in retrospect, she totally should have been -- is the kid going into convulsions, bringing a fresh scream from Katie. Except old Jacob's eyes just snapped open, blazing with righteous fury as the air above his chest thickens in a greasy, shimmering haze.

   She reaches out, grabbing blindly with both hands. Unseen claws rake at her arms as she tears and fumbles with buckles, straps

   _mad skills_

   ripping away what feels like a vest.

   The shimmer materializes, in full; a spitting ball of leathery green skin with a mouthful of jagged, broken teeth.

   Faith's trying to regain her hold on those spindly limbs, only peripherally aware of Jacob Senior rising up like some grizzled avenger, Junior running to his side. Then Katie lets out a _real_ scream, the genuine dead-waking article Accept No Substitutes.

   Her ears are still ringing as the beast slips through her grasp, heading straight for the freshly repaired window. Faith cringes in advance of the smash, shields the others from the worst of the shards before straightening with a murderous glare.

   "One more thing I'm takin' outta your hide, Sunny Jim --"

   "Faith! No --"

   Of course it's too late and she's already running, launched herself toward the ragged opening. Bits of the remaining glass leave more red streaks on both arms as she passes through but Faith doesn't feel a thing; tucks and tumbles, takes it hard on the shoulder to avoid breaking her neck as she hits cold ground, rolling to her feet and not even a nanosecond before she's taking off again. Hot on the trail because it's _on_.

   Hunt.

   Find.

   Slay.

 

**

 

   Xander's so caught up in the moment he almost follows Faith right out the window. Then he remembers his non-Slayer responsibilities, first and foremost of which is assuring the safety of non-combatants.

   Less than ten seconds later he's tearing out of the house via the long way, downstairs and out the back, boots ablaze. No weapons but his own body and mind; even a simple stake is too much to pass through an airport without more mojo or clout than the new Council is willing to bring to bear. But judging from its running-away speed -- not to mention the penchant for mindgames -- this demon looks to be more math champ than king quarterback. Of course, given a choice between a dumb foe and one not so dumb, Xander will always take the road less brainy. And not just for the obvious reasons.

   It's easier when you don't take these things personally.

   He skids to a halt, sight still adjusting to the light of the moon. _Which way did he go, George, which way did he --_

   A jumble of noise causes his neck to scream whiplash as his head whips around. He barely catches a glimpse of a shadowy figure -- long hair, vaguely girl-shaped -- disappearing around the corner of the barn, before he can blink.

   "Faith!" He risks a shout, feeling horribly exposed in the open yard.

   An answering yell comes from the barn. Something like _in here_, laced with a few generous _fucks_.

   The sounds of outraged farm animals greet him as he stumbles inside, turning and straining against the door until it slides on squeaky rails and slams shut. He swallows a yelp at something pressing into his back, nearly jumps out of his skin before identifying Faith.

   "Where?" he hisses. Hard to recognize his own voice.

   "Up." Faith's whisper is equally terse and purposeful, like she's having trouble holding onto the words. Cave Slayer Deluxe.

   "Thinking in three dimensions?" Xander's eye is unstopping if not all-seeing, roaming this way and that, trying to get a lock on their quarry. "This thing really is a geek."

   "Knock it off," she mutters. "Can't see in the dark --"

   "So we're even." He bites back the reflexive need for more witty banter. The horses have stopped screaming, nervous stomps and shuffles echoing from their stalls.

   Faith remains silent. Xander can't help but wonder if she's thinking the same thing; about that night not so long ago when it seemed as though for the first time, she actually saw him.

   He said they were good.

   Is that the same as even?

   Skittering above, in the rafters. He's coiled. Ready to strike. But which way --

   He figures it out a moment too late when a cold, clammy kitten -- maybe puppy, from the size -- drops on his head, latches on. Spiderlike limbs wrap around his throat, claws reaching for his unprotected eye.

   Xander throws himself to the ground, grabs a fistful of dirt, grinding it into the demon's unprotected face. Whatever way with words it once had apparently went right out the window as well; nothing but wordless snarls, teeth snapping at his fingers. Faith is shouting something, trying to pull it off, and all Xander knows is this thing has to die, as quick and painful as they can bring it. Fuck with the woman he loves? Defile her memory, when it's all he's got left?

   That's making it more than personal.

   He rears up, slams his upper body down against rock-hard earth. The demon's grip loosens, choking wheeze issuing from its throat like a leaky tire.

   He rises to his knees, preparing for another blow. Can just make out Faith, coming up behind --

   Another body crashes into him. Rips the demon free and rolls away, vanishing into one darkened corner. Xander is stunned, but not so out of it that he misses the high-pitched shriek, that comes to an abrupt end with a horrid, tearing sound like a sheet of bubblewrap suspended in syrup.

   He stands on shaky legs, massaging his throat. "What --"

   Faith holds up one hand for silence, gazing intently into the corner. And as Xander watches, the shadows coalesce into a real live girl: Dark-haired, wild-eyed, happy smile made more disturbing by the dripping head dangling from one fist.

   She holds it out, suddenly shy, seeking approval.

   Xander swallows, trying not to hear the slow patter of blood on the ground. "Dana?"

   She returns his stare with unfocused eyes. The gruesome trophy falls, forgotten, from her hand.

   "It's me -- Xander." He remains very still, pitching his voice to a more soothing register. Trying not to sound nervous. "We talked on the phone?"

   Dana blinks, cocks her head to one side.

   "I sent you the postcard?"

   He manages not to flinch as she takes one slow step, and another. Then she leans into him, inhaling deeply as her cheek comes to rest upon his chest.

   "Boy smell nice."

   Faith coughs and covers her mouth. Xander stares helplessly back at her, over Dana's head, awkwardly patting the junior Slayer on the shoulder.

   By all rights, it should be a happy ending. But Faith's already thinking on the future.

   And there's too much uncertainty not to call it murder.

 

**

 

   Hell of a lot can happen in less than forty-eight hours.

   Stuff she never would have figured, when she first came on the scene. Willow, on the phone with Giles and overflowing with apologies, called it more aftermath than epilogue. Though that's to be expected from someone who arrived fashionably late, pulling up as the rest of them were engaged in a lively discussion on the merits of demon interment versus cremation.

   With greetings established to everyone's satisfaction, Will and Xander picking up the conversational slack, Faith felt more than free to beat a strategic retreat from the limelight. Not like she did any of the heavy lifting. Motivational speeches aside, and she'd rather Buffy heard all about the _mano a mano_ with her latest evil twin. Unfortunately, while she can still cow Xander more or less into silence, it's a bit harder to think of credible threats where Willow's concerned.

   Maybe later she'll jump the gun. Bring it up before it becomes an issue: Casual, out of the blue, like it's no big thing. Because it isn't. _You should give B a call; I know it's been a while..._

   She looks back at the house, ablaze with light. Nobody's going to bed any time soon -- hell, they're just up a few hours early. Wouldn't be surprised if the old man's like her, again: _Slept enough for two lifetimes._ She can make out each of them through the windows, shadow silhouettes limned in fire; imagine the laughter, the increasing good times as they get to know each other.

   Somehow, it had come as no surprise -- at least to Faith -- when old Jacob remained silent. But he'd caught her eye while Willow was getting the grand tour of Katie's kitchen, and Faith had followed him back out to the barn, curious as two cats. Talk about surprise: All her weapons, laid out on the workbench looking good as new; knife polished and sharpened, her bow restrung, tuned to perfection. She'd just been thinking there was no way he could have done all this since waking up, must have started earlier. Maybe that very first night. Then he looked her dead in the eye, held out his hand and shook hers like a man.

   Far as she's concerned, that said it all.

   To top it off, while Xander was helping with introductions, Katie had quietly taken Faith aside and given her the name of a young woman who lived not thirty minutes away by horse-drawn carriage. A charming girl, but the subject of much recent rumor, apparently revolving to a great extent around her unnatural strength...

   She talked it up good to Willow. But of course, her girlfriend saw right through her.

   That's why she's sitting out here on the fence, in the cold and damp, once again on the outside looking in. That last cigarette isn't doing much to ease her stress, but it was a good excuse to make a quiet exit. Almost as quiet as Dana, suddenly materializing by her side with barely a whisper of footsteps on grass.

   "Hey." Faith takes in the bowed head, the forlorn expression on the other girl's face, and her resolve nearly crumbles. Anger at Will, for not keeping her mouth shut; at herself, for not having foreseen it. Like this wasn't hard enough --

   "Not your fault." Dana clambers up on the fence beside her, fingers aimlessly plucking at one sleeve. "She didn't tell."

   _The fuck?_ Faith opens her mouth, shuts it again, trying to process. She's almost become accustomed to the other girl's speech patterns, the occasional blast from the past that seems perilously close to Willow's own ability to --

   "You read my mind." Wild stab in the dark. But Dana still won't meet her gaze, and Faith can feel this vague, nagging sense of something deeper. It's on the tip of her tongue; two synapses searching for a spark. Something she should have gotten months ago...

   "Holy shit," she breathes. Dana turns, features etched in misery.

   "You knew. And -- you know, because --"

   "All of them." Dana's voice tightens. "Every Slayer who ever lived..."

   "And every Slayer _alive_." Faith swallows. "Everything we think, everything we _feel_ \--"

   "-- you feel it and it happens and I feel it, I try not to hear but I can't shut it out, I can't and it _hurts_ \--"

   "Jesus _fuck_ \--" Faith grabs her, holds on to the hyperventilating girl for dear life, like she's had to so many times. Except her thoughts are more jumbled and chaotic than ever before, and that can't be good. "Then you know -- it's not 'cause I don't want to --"

   "I know --" Dana returns the embrace full strength. "Not ready --"

   "Either one of us." She can feel Dana's heart thudding away, a mile a minute and then some.

   "I know --"

   "It's just for now --"

   "Someday." Dana sniffles, still sounding not entirely sane. "We'll get better..."

   Faith can't help a chuckle. "So you _were_ listenin' in."

   "Couldn't help it." Dana's words are muffled against her shoulder. She abruptly draws back, forcing Faith to meet her gaze.

   "Take care of her." She hugs Faith with all the strength in that fierce, tiny frame. "You'll need her."

   Faith ignores the fortune cookie. Pretty sure who it's about.

   "So." She holds Dana's chin up, tilting her face so the girl can't look away. "You scare off the natives?"

   Dana shakes her head. "Said I was pretty." A ghost of a smile returns. "Thinks we're sisters."

   "We are." Faith grabs her hand. Dana instinctively responds with the proper soul handshake, and they both grin.

   "So," Faith repeats. "Since you'll be goin' with Xander --"

   "Back to England."

   " -- think you can sit down long enough for a civilized meal?"

   "I think so." Dana's smile is hesitant but genuine; still obviously sad about their impending separation. She nods eagerly. "I want to."

   And Faith doesn't have to force a smile as they hop down from the fence, head back to the house with their arms around each other. Future's uncertain, and the end is always near. Plenty of time to worry about what's to come.

   For now?

   Call that a win.

 

 

 

     _On the road again  
     Going places that I've never been  
     Seeing things that I may never see again  
     I can't wait to get on the road again._

     - Willie Nelson

 

 

The story continues in

**Faith the Vampire Slayer**

1x02: "Murdered By Numbers"

 

 

**

Author's Notes:

"Brauching" is the Amish folk healing tradition consisting of herbal medicine, massage, and the recitation of low German spells. Some Pennsylvania Dutch call it "powwowing".

The verse on the Tarn-cloak I found in The Fairy Mythology by Thomas Keightley:  
[http://books.google.com/books?id=LUUKAAAAIAAJ&amp;pg=PA206&amp;lpg=PA206](http://books.google.com/books?id=LUUKAAAAIAAJ&pg=PA206&lpg=PA206)

Amish photos:  
<http://www.flickr.com/photos/cindy47452/sets/960767/>

Amish summary:  
<http://www.goshen.edu/~lonhs/SamYoder.html>

Miscellaneous Amish stuff:  
<http://www.bethelks.edu/mennonitelife/2005Dec/bontrager.php>

Thanks to Stephen M. Nolt's "A History Of the Amish" for historical detail.

**


End file.
